Brief Interlude: 19 Will Get You 3000

Earlier this week I talked about my quixotic quest to reach 3,000 miles on my new CB1100 before winter set in. As a few of my more astute commenters noted, this was an entirely arbitrary and meaningless goal.

Nevertheless, it's done, and all it took was the willingness to ride to work in nineteen-degree weather.

Over the past month, I've gotten pretty comfortable with riding in the forties and thirties, but nineteen is another country, particularly on an unfaired bike like the CB. Most of my body was in some sort of pain within five minutes of my leaving the house. By the time I reached the first exits south of Route 270 on my way to work, my hands were twitching. I alternated putting them directly on the not-so-hot engine. The gloves I was wearing (Joe Rocket Sub-Zeros) didn't catch on fire, but honestly I'd have been okay with them catching on fire.

Nine miles into my thirteen-mile ride, I saw a grease truck ahead in the right lane. To my eternal shame, I slotted in ten feet behind the thing and drafted it. Given that the grease truck had a massive box attached to the back of it that was shaking and shifting around, it probably was very far from the smartest idea I've ever had. Still, I got through those last three miles without having either hand lock up on me, which was my primary concern.

By lunch, it was up to a balmy 28, and I rode to Potbelly with no worries. It was 41 degrees when I left for home. Felt like summer. Everything's relative.

As part of my belief that I should live in reality, I've carefully examined my moronic desire to ride in cold temperatures. I think it goes back to when I was a teenager doing winter road rides with the Franklin Cycle Club. There's something about freezing your core down to misery then warming back up that feels spiritually uplifting. When I was a kid, riding my Cannondale SR500 fifty miles at the back of a paceline, my second-hand shoe covers letting the snow freeze my toes and my merlot-colored Jones sunglasses attaching themselves to my face with long icy fingers, it was a matter of showing myself I was tough enough to do it. When I was in my early thirties and I'd run in the winter before going to work, it was a way to ensure that I'd be awake and alive the rest of the day.

Now I think these cold rides are just a way to show myself that I haven't gone completely soft even though I'm in my forties and live pretty comfortably ninety-nine percent of the time. There's also a second benefit that never really applied before: my left leg feels like a million bucks when it's frozen to immobility. I have a real spring in my step as I get off the bike. It's gone by the time I'm in the office but those few minutes are nice to have. Now I can pack up the bikes and the Boxster for the winter, secure in the knowledge that I didn't retreat before I'd accomplished my silly little goal. It makes me think I can accomplish the other silly goals I have in my life. Maybe you can, as well.