Shadow (dariaphoebe) wrote,
Shadow
dariaphoebe

Biking in winter is annoying. Probably, though, not for the reason you'd guess. This week, the temperatures have crept up close to the freezing mark several days in a row, and each of those days I have climbed into the saddle and rode from my bottoms neighborhood to the top of the hill, as well as around the neighborhood: yesterday, to lunch in a cute outfit probably better suited to 20 degrees warmer.

We live in a house with an odd lineage. The kernel of the house is an 1885 rowhouse, but it's been added to in various ways, some nonsensical when you look at it in perspective. One of them, a since-enclosed back patio, is uninsulated and not on a proper footer. We made plans to remove and replace it with a two-story addition, which is when the fun began. After tossing tens of thousands of dollars down a figurative hole, the ownership was resolved, but we are left with the patio. And so this winter, as each before, when the ground freezes, the door frame racks and we cannot open the door to the outside. You know, the door to the room where the bikes are.

My bicycle is about control, or the illusion of it. I control the destination and the route. I keep myself moving, in shape. And sometimes, you just need to be reminded not everything is out of your control.

Today, like the others, I climbed the hill. "Up!", "Go!", "Push!", I told myself. I paused at the top, on the edge of the ridge line, and gazed over the frozen city before returning home to continue working.
Tags: cycling, history, transition
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