Where the Sun Don't Shine

It was a cold morning, and heading deep into a narrow canyon seemed less than enticing; but that was my plan for the day. With the thermometer hovering near the freezing mark, I revised my attire. Wool jersey, wool socks, thermal tights, booties, serious jacket and gloves. [There, that feels better.]

Given a comfortably late start for this ride, and a route that would circle back toward home, it made good sense to bike to the start. Good sense in a frigid-air kind of way.

We met the first deep pocket of cold shortly after entering the canyon. Eyeing frost-coated leaves along the roadside, I focused on the road surface. Bridge Freezes Before Road echoed in my brain. In this dead-end canyon, there is little need for signs. My cycling companions were chattering about the hazards of black ice as I studied the haze of white frost on the bridge. Above us, a patch of snow lingered on the rocks. Snow? In Stevens Canyon?

When did the last storm pass through? Certainly, it was more than a week ago. This part of the canyon must trap some really cold air. Climbing gently along the creek, the rest of the road was wet, and muddy—but thankfully, not icy. December's heavy rains had triggered some large slides. Occasional patches of sunlight were a welcome surprise; I was eager to find more. I was not eager to socialize (and cool down) whenever we regrouped.

I slowed on Mt. Eden as something clambered down the hillside toward me. Too bold for a coyote ... it was a fawn! Mom was waiting on the other side of the road. They calmly looked me over before continuing on their way.

I suffered up the steep hills, but I made it to the top of every one. Endurance, I have. Strength, I have not. Sheer ornery determination, I have.

Thirty-six chilly miles, with 2,350 feet of climbing. One look at my bike and you would think I had been off-roading. So much for yesterday's thorough cleaning. Lather, rinse, repeat.