The day started with the lure of sunshine, calm winds and no rain – conditions not seen together almost all week.  The sun however bright was only 6 degrees which prompted a long debate in the garage before leaving: gloves and numb hands or no gloves and probably numb hands.  I’d learned recently that irrespective of the forecast temperatures later in the day, there is no such thing as a warm 3 degrees unless of course it was just -20 degrees.

Several days ago, in my morning-addled brain, I reasoned that while it was indeed brisk at the moment, the promise of a 25 degree afternoon surely suggested that my appendages and digits would be warm in the morning sun.  It was only after the point of no return (IE the bottom of the big hill) that I admitted my folly.  There was not going to be any warmth from the sun and further to that, the very cold aluminium bits on the bike gave me a first-hand lesson in their heat-transferring abilities, promptly freezing any bit of flesh unfortunate enough to come into contact with it.  A warm 3 degrees…yeah.

6 degrees proved to be marginally warmer but I was quickly distracted by the “calm” wind which was now “calmly” blowing head-on at 20km/h.  All thoughts of casual and relaxed spinning went by the wayside as I got down to the business of ego grinding into the headwind at a sustainable pace.  The only cyclist I passed was stopped in the middle of path looking perplexed.  The McKnight underpass was closed off due to flooding and he hadn’t managed to cogitate a solution yet.  I did however, though I’m certain it involved at least a handful of ticket-worthy offenses so I’ll not relay it out loud.  It was sufficient however as it put me back on the path in short order (only to run into the same issue at the 40th ave underpass).

All day I kept watch of the flags outside work.  Ordinarily they are little more than a poke in the eye as they gleefully communicate the change from a south wind into a north wind an hour or two before I head north.  They play such a mental game with my enthusiasm that I’ve made a point of avoiding them lest my spirits be crushed on the way out the door.  It shouldn’t matter – a headwind is just hill training they tell me, but it invariably does.  I think it’s the unfairness factor (because life and nature are bound by the laws of fairness obviously) having ridden to work in a headwind and having to ride home in a headwind again.

Today the flags parlayed only great things – the strong, steady south wind had not diminished and turned, rather it was going strong, still blowing from the south.  A tailwind!  Without going into tedious detail involving the click, click, click of the derailleur or the wheezing or the lactic acid burn, it is sufficient to say I had a very good ride home.  3 new personal records on various stretches of the commute and an entertaining ride on top of it.

After digging in to try and score a PR on one of the middle stretches, I tried once again to sit back and “spin”, just taking it all in and trying to enjoy the ride.  This is not a place I’m comfortable in.  It’s difficult to scale back the effort and just glide along but glide I did.  I watched as the bicycle behind me started growing larger, looming ever closer.  I tried to distract myself looking around, looking down, making a conscious effort to stay relaxed.  99% of me was wondering why I didn’t get on it and rabbit away – how can you just let this guy pass you?  Aren’t you even going to try?  He’s going to pass you!  I kept my casual pace up, gritting my teeth until finally he went by, big grin on his face.

I couldn’t do it.  Could. Not. Do it!  I chased him.  In some ill-formed notion of “still gliding” I decided not to pass him but I chased him, pushing, pushing, goading him on.  I wheeled up tight behind him then coasted, my freewheel clicking away loudly as he looked over his shoulder.  My turn to grin.  He road all over the path trying to cut corners, even passing someone who was already in the process of passing someone on the left.  Eventually he shot off the end of the path, caught a break in traffic and headed off on his own.  I continued my journey leading to the inevitable kilometer long climb standing between me and home but not before getting passed.

He’d entered the path at the 8th Ave overpass in front of me. Despite a solid effort on my part, I could not reel him in, in the 8 block sprint we had before he headed towards my old nemesis climb.  I was taking the straight north route, newly paved and freshly opened for this year.  He was riding the detour route and perhaps, I thought, going east, not north.  Ah, such was not the case.  Despite my earlier chase and his detoured route, he still managed to catch, pass and drop me without much effort.  I laughed when he passed me, my ego  checked but not bruised.

What a difference that bit of speed makes.  Fighting and pushing and pumping it out at 35 and 40km/h, despite succumbing to a faster rider is still more rewarding and more gratifying than grinding along in a headwind at 25.  Or 22 and still passing people.  Oh sure, there’s ego at play – can’t deny that, but in the end, it’s all about the speed. I’m an addict!  I’m going to need a faster bike…