This past weekend, I rode at a local hill called Green Mountain, which is ideal for November–and after the first snow of fall–as it’s open, treeless, and snow tends to melt from the trails quickly.
I rode for around two hours, and let me say: it was awfully cold. My fingers and toes were numb; on downhills as I cruised, the chill blasted through my jersey and made me shiver. Such pain made me reconsider the recently decided upon idea that I would, as long as the trails weren’t buried in snow, ride through the winter. I have the gear. I like to ski, and can handle cold. I grew up in Buffalo, New York, for cripessakes. If I can survive that, I can survive anything.
Plus, there’s something solemn about riding in the gray and white, something quieter and more thoughtful, somehow, than the heat and green of spring and summer. Time to cool off, literally and figuratively. And we all know how important that is.
I just need to make sure I wear my warm gloves and my little riding booties next time.