Spring is in the air. Though as anyone who’s lived in Calgary for more than a few months knows, Snow in June is not just an album from the Northern Pikes. One need be wary this time of year as sneak-attack snow storms await the unprepared. This of course has nothing to do with today.

Maybe it does. Unprepared. That adequately describes me on this auspicious day, the formal First Commute Ride of 2012. After losing the “First to Ride” bragging rights on Friday to a nameless cheater who lives less than a km from work, I could think of no logical reason to drive rather than ride. Sun, no snow, no rain, clear paths. At the very least, I couldn’t allow Adam to make a proper cycling commute while I continued to lumber around in the oversize truck. This is how I found myself on my bicycle in the minus-2-but-feels-like-minus-6 air this morning. Ego. Stupid ego.

As you know (and if you didn’t, you’re about to), we celebrated a much-anticipated abode-change earlier this year. I have espoused on all the great and wonderful things but have neglected, purposefully, to address the impact on my morning (and evening) ride. We are slightly farther away, which I believed to be a positive thing at first. A few more kilometers each day would do me good. Maybe not a few, just two as it turns out. But that’s two each way.

What had really haunted me until this morning however was not the distance – that would be unnoticed by the end of the first week. Nor was it the route – despite living on the west side of 4^th street, and having to cross both 4^th and Centre thoroughfares before hitting the trails. No, it was elevation. What should have been a joyful and exuberant ride out this morning was tainted, nay over-whelmed, with the knowledge that I was facing certain cardiac arrest on the trip home.

I don’t know what the elevation change is from Edmonton Trail to this portion of 4^th street, but I have it on good authority that in the days before autos ruled the landscape, there was a Sherpa camp at the intersection of what is now McKnight Boulevard and Edmonton Trail. My lungs accurately telegraphed the lack of oxygen at the ever-increasing height as I wheezed and wobbled my way up to dizzying heights. At least I was dizzy when I arrived at home. Home of course has a steep driveway with a meter and half of elevation rise, just to drive home the point that three four four and half months of not riding has somehow not strengthened my cardio like it should have. You’d think given all that rest it would be raring to go. The same could be said for my legs.

Let’s not leave out the worst offender though – my mind… After a long downhill start which gave me plenty of time to dread the return run, I managed a kilometre before the first complaints started. Oh man, this is hard – you should rest on that bench over there. No? Have you forgotten about that big climb just up there? It’s not a climb. Sure it is you’re going to end up flailing about face-down in the middle of path, feet still clipped to your fancy new pedals because you’ve run out of steam. Geez man, no, no I won’t. Will. And you’ll get run over while you’re lying there. Shut up.

This went on for the duration of the ride out, despite being proven wrong time and again. I did not fall down, I did not get off and push, I did not get run over. I didn’t even get passed but that’s more a testament to my willingness to ride in sub-zero (yet snowless) weather while the rest are warm in their cars. I did see a handful of riders going the other way including one rider with a headlight on either side of his helmet. I couldn’t help but think of a cartoonish hammerhead shark.

Hell, it seems, was waiting to ambush me on the ride home. My punishment for the following infractions: not riding the trainer religiously; not fighting the good anti-doughnut fight; eating everything within reach; indulging in a couple of cigars; gaining back half the weight I lost and other infractions generalized under the heading of slothfulness? A stiff headwind and the knowledge that, when I was all but home, the last kilometre and a half were up-hill. Sure, as I discovered, there were flat patches, but there is no free lunch. For every meter of flat road, there must necessarily be a meter now steeper waiting ahead. I’m not certain I would have made it without an involuntary pavement inspection or two had it not been for those brief flat spots. Though, if I may continue my self-pitying and moaning, there was a stiff headwind there too. I was as it turns out, wholly unprepared.

As I hobbled into the garage with the Rescue Bike, it was only this thought that kept both tires from being accidently spiked with a rusty nail maliciously: it gets better. Wait…no…that’s not what I thought. I thought what kind of excuse can I come up with so I don’t have to endure this again tomorrow. Heh. That’s not a very good pep talk is it?

In truth, there are two things that continue to keep me riding. The first is the knowledge that growth – mental or physical – requires effort. Positive change requires effort. Push past the burning muscles, ignore the oh man, that’s it – that’s all the effort I’ve got in me commentary (it’s a lie). The rewards are there for the having, I just need to, in the words of my father, buckle down son. Sage advice.

The second is the knowledge that hiding out there, waiting, plotting, scheming, are evil bankers bent on world domina….wait…wrong blog. Hidden amongst the days of summer are the cycling equivalents of the perfect wave. Perfect paths, negligible traffic, dead calm (or even a stiff tail wind), full energy stores, full water bottles and a clear head. It’s like a needle in the vein. Just. One. More.

*To my surprise and glee I couldn’t help but notice Adam’s 4-wheeled conveyance in its normal spot as I entered the parking lot this morning. I hereby claim victory in the First Cycling Commute that Requires more than 4 Complete Revolutions of the Tires category. Huzzah!