The Very, Very Cold

Goddam it was cold yesterday. Pulling myself out of bed while it was still dark outside, I thought (as I’m sure everyone who wakes up before dawn to ride a bicycle in the middle of winter thinks), What the hell is wrong with me?

That’s a good question. Actually, it’s a damn good question--one that I’ve been asking myself for longer than I care to remember.

Anyway, I made it to Staten Island already having donned my polypro sock liners, wool socks, and neopro socks. Three layers of socks to try and ward off the eighteen-degree temperature in which we were about to ride like a bunch of raving lunatics. Then again, you could say, “Why climb Mount Everest?” Because it’s there to be done, I guess, the same way the bike sits in the hall or the garage and stares at you every time you walk by, wondering when you’re going to take it out again.

By 8:20, I was dressed and out of the warmth of my truck, standing around a deserted parking lot in New Dorp with a bunch of other lunatics willing to go cycling for a few hours in below-freezing weather. As we waited until the usual 8:35 to see if any latecomers would arrive, I began wondering how long it would take before my toes went numb. I began wondering if it would get so bad that I’d have to quit, turn around, and ride as fast as possible back to the truck in the hopes I wouldn’t permanently lose the feeling in my toes. The night before, I had considering swapping out the clipless pedals for a pair of platforms with toe clips so I could ride with my gore-tex hiking boots. In hindsight, that might not have been such a bad idea.

During the first twenty or so minutes of the ride, my fingers were colder than . . . colder than . . . uh, you know . . . they were cold, okay? Freezing, actually, yet as usual, they felt fine after the first short climb when we reached McClean Avenue, once the heart rate was up and pumping. Half an hour after that, the toes began going numb, but not dangerously numb. Rather, the numbness was somewhat bearable, if that’s at all possible. By the time we reached Richmond Avenue, though, it was time to step on the gas just enough to push the heart rate out of that 120-130 zone up into the 160-170 zone. If not, my toes would have turned into frozen extremities a la carte by the time we hit the bagel shop and as Joe C. and I stepped it up a bit, I could hear Ed Dalton’s voice in the back of my head, “What’s the point of going on a group ride if you’re not going to ride in a group?” He’s got a point, of course, but I think you should be allowed to bend the etiquette a bit when the temperature is below freezing and you’ve been out riding for more than an hour.

By the time we reached the bagel shop, Tommy summed up the morning’s experience perfectly when he said, “My feet are gone. Totally gone.”

And then, rather than take the loop down to Hylan Boulevard, we made the right out of the bagel shop’s parking lot and hitched it over to the Richmond Parkway service road. Not five minutes after leaving the parking lot, I stood up on one of the rolling hills to get the heart rate back up a bit, to try and keep the damn feet from freezing again, when I heard Ed Dalton sprinting up behind me. How did I know it was Ed? I could hear the squeal of a chain in desperate need of some oil. Expecting Ed and the entire wagon train behind him sitting in the draft, I pushed down on the pedals even harder yet when I glanced over, there was Andy and his bright green winter jacket.

Two minutes later, Dr. Rob pulled up next to me.

“You really didn’t want Andy to pass you, huh?”

Stopped at the next red light, I turned around and explained, “Andy, when you came up behind me on that last hill I could hear your chain and I thought it was him.” I pointed at Ed.

It is what it is, I guess, but that was Sunday. It was cold. It was colder than cold. It’s only January and already I’m thinking about summer.