Once I'm riding, things begin to look up. It's cold, but not too bad. Brian taught me a long time ago that if you start out a winter ride with enough clothes on to be warm, you will soon be too hot. My legs feel the cold first. My wool tight are pretty old, and a little more threadbare than they used to be. This time of year, I take the back way out of the neighborhood, which means my first couple of mile is predominately down hill. By the time I hit the river, I am cold. My face hurts (I know, it's killing you), my torso is cold, but the worst are my hands. By mile two, they are frozen, and they hurt.
There is a comfort in pain. I know, that sounds a bit odd, but it is true. On a cold morning, after an emotionally draining day like yesterday, I welcome the cold. I like how it feels biting my cheeks. On mornings like this, I welcome the pain. I am a bit OCD, and when things go bad, I play the events over and over in my head. I cannot seem to get it to stop, until I crawl on that bike, and feel the frigid air. Suddenly, all I think about is cold. For thirty wonderful minutes, the events of yesterday are gone, replaced by one all consuming thought. My hands friggin hurt!
By the time I get to work, I have warmed up considerably. In fact, I stopped at the Seltice Park and Ride to took my balaclava off. I lock up my bike, go into work and begin another day. Nothing has been solved, but I am able to clear my head a little. And no matter what happens today at work, I will crawl on my bike this afternoon. The good news? It's supposed to be in the low twenties.