Time thief

In early spring, every Ride planning a burglary.
I consult the weather forecast like others consult tea leaves. I examine the hourly predictions meticulously, like a criminal analyzing a bank's blueprints. Early in the morning, it's often too cold. At the end of the day, when the sun goes down, the mercury follows suit. Thank you, pandemic: schedules have never been so flexible. Every cloud has a silver lining, as they say.

Out of sight
The opportunity arises and I seize it. I quickly leave the city behind and head for my northern lands. My coastline, my forests, my rivers. Here, road signs are only used to indicate speed limits for cars. For me, there's no need to slow down or stop. The wide Tires my gravel bike (which I take on the road in spring) laugh at the sand accumulations and damage to the pavement caused by winter. Every time I stand up on the pedals, their rubber hisses to the rhythm of the dance I impose on them.

And this happens often. The efficiency of my pedaling technique, honed on the roller during the winter, is overshadowed by my enthusiasm. I stand up, accelerate, my heart racing as much from the effort as from the pleasure. My lungs take in the cold air like a sign of life.

The one that starts again. It's the end of winter. Finally.

I don't know if I would enjoy riding as much without the off-season. There is something about the renewed wonder, the rediscovery of sensations in the spring that makes me fall in love with the act, the speed, all over again. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, as the English say. Out of sight, close to the heart. Distance stirs up feelings, as the saying goes. 

This may not always be true with people (although we have never realized as much as we do today how much we can miss our loved ones when we are deprived of their contact), but I feel that it is true with cycling.

On cloud nine
In Les Équerres, between Tewkesbury and Valcartier, the river has refrozen over the last few nights. It radiates cold as I cross it. Then, once I'm over the bridge, the sun comes out from behind the clouds and warms my back, my arms, my hands. The sensation is invigorating. I stand up on the pedals. I feel the sweat on my back. The road is also sweating in the sun. A blanket of fog covers it. I ride on a cushion of clouds that part as I pass.

I pass two local cowboys on horseback. I wave to them. I think of nothing. I am breath and movement. I feel the slight pain in Socks left Socks . I don't think about work. Not about meals to plan. Not about the third wave or the vaccine. I don't wonder whether the races I'm signed up for will take place this summer or not. 

I enjoy the moment, knowing that I can come back here as often as I like. In the total purity of solitude in motion that I find today, on this vehicle where suffering is a matter of escape, of time stolen from time. Of pleasure, in fact.