Less than zero

Winter had retreated for two days and the rain had washed everything clean. The ice patches at the side of the roads were now just a memory. The treacherous black patches of ice had also disappeared. Then, one morning, winter returned, but discreetly. Just below freezing. The sun was partially veiled, as if covered in white muslin, and the sky was occasionally crossed by a flurry of snowflakes that seemed to have strayed. Like confetti from a distant wedding that had been blown away by a gust of wind.

I couldn't resist the overwhelming urge to go out. November had crushed my desire to be outdoors. December had reserved a jump from the third rope for it, knocking out my desire to travel. And now it was coming back, all of a sudden.

The gravel bike was ready to go in the basement. Tires mm Tires , inflated to 40 pounds. The mechanics were flawless, ready to take off, like burning patience.

I put on layer after layer of clothing in the silence of the house, which was deserted that day. With the clicking of my keyboard keys now silent, all that remained was the sound of my heart beating faster in my chest and temples. I was eager; excitement grew with every piece of clothing I put on. I didn't know where I would go. How long? It didn't matter. I had a good few hours at my disposal, and I intended to make the most of them to increase the pleasures that give life the flavor of a sugared almond, letting the sugar melt on my tongue before biting into the almond.

Driving in winter is a kind of challenge to nature. A crime of northernness.

In the city, it's still okay. Shorter distances and busier, better-maintained avenues present a challenge that cannot be underestimated, but setting off on distant roads, in regions where cyclists at this time of year are as surprising a sight as a startled deer, is another matter entirely.

Not to mention the possibility of freezing 30 or 40 kilometers from home and having to return shivering from head to toe. On exposed roads, the winter wind is a threat. Its bite is cruel and feared. It can overcome all the arrogance of research and development invested in the design of technical fabrics to chill you to the bone.

But the wind was calm. Almost sleepy. And the air had that quality it only has on days that are cold without being completely freezing. If I had to give a visual consistency to its invisibility, I would evoke the submerged part of an iceberg, the transparency of its walls revealing a matte blue ice core. Pure, imperial.

The first few turns of the wheels were like those in spring. Pure excitement. Enchantment.

I chose the route that would take me away from populated areas as quickly as possible. The vapor from my breath left a kind of trail behind me, I imagined, like smoke from a steam locomotive, but it vanished almost immediately.

Behind my Sunglasses, my eyes were moist. A few tears caused by the cold wind mixed with an emotion that was not enough on its own to make me cry with happiness; nevertheless, I was elated. Because you can offer me all the substitutes in the world. Make me ski, walk, run. I will never love them as much as I love cycling.

So driving that morning was an unexpected gift. I felt both grateful and cunning. As if I had robbed the warehouse of summer possibilities by breaking into its sanctuary, which was locked up tight for the winter.

On the climbs, my breath became visible again and I could feel sweat dampening my merino base layer. My movements were surprisingly supple, my joints barely affected by the temperature. The descents scared me a little; I was afraid that the sweat would freeze on my body, but above all that some patch of black ice, ignored by the thaw, would be waiting for me around the bend to throw me to the ground. I tried to stay calm, conversing with my fear and convincing it to tell my hands to relax and resume their ideal grip on the handlebars. A cool firmness that dispels tension.

From the woods came the cold that radiates from large masses of snow. The skeletal trees ignored me, in their winter slumber, and I felt as if I were slipping into a silence broken only by the occasional car, whose drivers gave me looks that oscillated between astonishment and amusement.

The hissing of my Tires the asphalt whitened by deicing salts; the barren landscape I rediscovered in its dead season; the sub-zero air rushing through my collar and into my lungs; the slight burning sensation in my legs; the slow bite of the cold creeping into my toes and fingers and nibbling at the tips of my nose and cheeks: all these things commanded my attention. And the absence of thoughts unrelated to this experience delighted me.

The sun was completely obscured when I encountered the first signs of urban life. Fast-food restaurants, half-empty malls, and frantic traffic. The scattered confetti turned into a snow shower, and I had only a few short kilometers left to go before returning home and rediscovering the comforts of civilization. Inner life.

Then winter would return for months. Would it ignore the time I had stolen from it, or would it punish me by lingering into spring? For now, these questions seemed pointless. Happiness is always fleeting and must be savored when it comes. The future could bring whatever it wanted. My reserves of hope had been replenished. Even Quebec City's cruel winter could not maintain, without sometimes faltering, its cruel grip that at times felt like a piece of eternity.