When the leaves began to turn, I vowed to spend as much of the winter riding my bike outside as possible. I didn’t want to spend the long dark months ahead in the proverbial pain cave, sweating indoors. I wanted to build grit, savor bundling up, and learn to embrace the seasons.
As I plotted out my gear purchases and turned the shower knob to cold, I forgot that 2023 was the warmest year on record. The bitter cold I fantasized about would be fleeting at best.
And when I bought a fat bike, I forgot to consider how much it actually snows in Southeast Michigan.
Now, as the snowdrops are quickly overtaken by dainty yellow crocuses and mud reigns, I’m wondering was that it? Is this winter now?
In the early weeks, it didn’t matter that there wasn’t snow. I stared longingly at the new bike parked next to my desk and waited, grinning. The anticipation of a new hobby carried me through the first weeks of winter. I relished checking the forecast and looking at trail conditions. When it dumped snow in November, I felt the giddiness of a kid putting a spoon under her pillow or an ice cube in the toilet, dancing to call down a blanket of snow.
At the trailhead after work that day, I wobbled in a wide circle around the parking lot, snow crunching under my wheels as I gathered confidence. I swerved as far as I dared to avoid the wooden bollard blocking cars from the trail, nearly falling off the groomed snow.
We twisted through trails in the dark, our fingers and noses burning with cold. I grabbed the brakes whenever I gathered speed and put my foot down at every hesitation, unable to trust my tires could grip the snow. But when I gave in and rolled freely, delight came cackling out of me, a moment before I shrieked again. I kept pedaling and negotiating with my fear, chasing momentum.
The women we met on the trail that night told us they’d been around the loop six times. I thought that seemed a little excessive, but hey, it was a while before real winter would set in. Why not take advantage?
Stick season wore on without charm with no sign of relief. The frozen dirt trails were a fine stand-in, but the jolting ride made my wrists ache. Besides, I wanted to learn how to ride on snow.
It didn’t snow again until January.
After the storm, the temperature plummeted to the single digits, which did nothing to deter me. When the group ride waffled on whether -20F windchill was too cold, someone pointed out that it’s not like it’s the last weekend to ride in the snow.
But what if it was?
Each winter I fret that it feels warmer, with snows like a last gasp. I’ve been dreading the loss of snow for what feels like my whole life–a professor once pointed out to me that I’m too young to know a “normal” winter. And it’s always felt like the thing I need to worry the least about–not the snow that feeds rivers, but the snow of canceled school and wonder. But each flake feels increasingly precious, pulling me outside.
The crowds on the trails seemed to agree it wasn’t worth the risk of missing out. The snow clung for two glorious weekends. Diamond dust shimmered, suspended on the breeze, as we weaved between towering pines and under bowing cedars. I went from gasping at every turn to giggling with glee when I braved a buried rock pile. I tried not to dwell on the fleeting joy as I gulped hot chocolate in the parking lot.
When the snow melted, Jeremy and I ventured north, but the trails there were mashed potato-soft and nearly impossible to pedal through. Still, I tried to wobble over paths full of suncups and icy drifts. For a week, we went through the motions of a winter trip. We strapped on the snowshoes and claimed it was for traction. I borrowed skis and tried to glide over frozen paw prints and gritty slush.
I try not to worry too much about winter. Of course, this is a futile effort. Every conversation begins with the weather. It’s not just my climate organizer friends and colleagues who are making tired jokes about enjoying the nice days we shouldn’t have. Everyone around me has picked up on the uneasy realization that not only is this the warmest winter on record, but we can feel it.
I’ve been the doomsday cousin at the family dinner table for years now, brimming with anxious anticipation. But this winter there’s loss mingling with the fear. No catastrophic loss, but one that still aches when it rains in January. It’s no coincidence that this is the year I dreamed the most about winter–of weathering it, of celebrating it. I wanted to fat bike, to ski, to bask in the frigid cold. And I did, for two weeks. I am beginning to feel like I’m setting myself up for even more heartbreak, that maybe these hobbies are not worth the climate grief.
I tried to make do with imperfect conditions, even if you’re not supposed to pedal on soft snow. What is the protocol if it’s on its way out for good? There was no joy in knowing I was wobbling through the slush that should have been sparkling powder. I laughed when I rolled easily over heaps of lake-worn stones before I began cursing the trail again. But the good days were amazing, full of a childish joy so glorious, I’ll spend any afternoon I can chasing it on two wheels. I can’t give that up, just because it’s fickle.
I have this grand idea that it’s about love. That, somehow, falling in love with snow sports will teach me something. It’ll remind me I have skin in the game and that my climate day job or attending that protest is personal beyond the existential despair. The stakes might not be so high–or are they? What does it mean to lose access to a source of joy?
I wonder if making myself more vulnerable to climate grief makes my work stronger, or if will overwhelm me. If a snow day presents joy and fear in equal measure, am I still putting a spoon under my pillow?
The reality is that I can’t help it. Also true is that I know how to isolate myself on the couch. I know how to cling to apathy. But the joy of flowing between snow-laden trees, the hollering of delighted cyclists all around–I can’t not ride my bike. And it’s a reminder that even in the last weeks of winter, I’m finding joys worth fighting for.
I’m not sure what to make of it all. But I’m still riding my fat bike every chance I get.
Happy trails,
Mumble
Some winter favorites:
