This is the second entry in The Commuter Chronicles.
I have been writing about how I have been getting to and
from work as a bike commuter (and sometimes as a runner) in order to exercise
more and pollute less. This entry explores how I deal with riding in the
darkest, coldest times.
Thick frost on the glass frames darkness, a streetlight, the
mountain of plowed snow across the street.
The phone says it’s 7 degrees outside. My body says, no way
in hell, I’m biking through this to work. But then I think about how I’ll answer
the question waiting for me when I walk in the door: “How did you get here today?”
Thirty-six hours have passed since the last flakes fluttered
out from the monster blizzard that pile-drove its way into Connecticut. The
roads are cleared — sorta. Just don’t count the 100-foot patches of compacted
snow. Also, ignore the frozen canyon walls the plows left behind and the buried
margins that leave a non-existent gap between the bike and traffic lanes. I sip my coffee, and I factor in the extra
time I’ll need to take the less-trafficked back roads. I unseal the
handwarmers.
Visibility
Learning to deal with weather has been the most consistent, and interesting challenge I’ve faced as a New England bike commuter. It is a challenge I relish. I have learned new ways to dress, and to anticipate what my body will need exerting itself on a freezing January morning versus a June afternoon. I dance with the changing seasons. Those who encase themselves in climate-controlled vehicles, complete with headlights and seat warmers, are sitting it out.
In the sun’s absence I rely upon technology for seeing and
for being seen.
There’s a bicycle light, a $60 gadget, and literal pale
imitation of what the sun provides for free. Other than the bike itself, it is
the most expensive item in my bike commuting arsenal. For years, I used either
a cheap headlamp (not so comfortable when combined with a helmet) or a rechargeable
flashlight attached to my wrist with rubber bands. The latter, was actually,
better than the headlamp, but remained a consummate pain in the neck.)
Note to people just starting bike commuting: you absolutely
don’t need a bike light if you want to save the money. It sure is nice to have
one, though. I’ve found that lights that were perfectly serviceable for a night
hike simply don’t cut it for a bike ride, where the faster speeds require a
brighter beam to see the road ahead. Now that I have a stronger light, I pedal
with more confidence, and find myself hitting the brakes less cruising down
hills.
I still haven’t bought myself a similarly high-end taillight,
for the excellent reason that I am cheap. I usually rely on a blinking solar
lantern that I have rigged off the back rack and a red blinking wrist band.
Neither of these will help me be seen better in daylight, though I do wear
bright colors to help me stand out.
Dressing warm, dressing weird
I begin the roll down the crunching street by the headlight.
Orange glow pools along the southeastern sky; stars, then planets dissolve in the
flood of dawn.
The frigid air stings the exposed flesh around my eyes. I’m dressed
for the cold ride, though not in comfort. My body is encased in a menagerie of
equipment, including kayak gear. These include a neoprene balaclava hood, designed
to keep me warm in frigid water immersion.
The hood is thin enough to fit easily under a bike helmet,
but it still creates a bombproof layer against the wind.
Pogies are another piece of kayak equipment that has served
me well biking. Also made of neoprene, pogies wrap around
a paddle shaft and create a toasty pocket for the hands. They fit
imperfectly around bike handlebars, but they buffer the wind, and work well with
mitts and handwarmers.
Then there is the surgical mask. Not only do these tragically
politicized symbols of pandemic times protect against airborne viruses, they also
can take the edge off a brutal draft. I’ve only worn surgical masks on the
coldest days. I accept the fact that it will be half-frozen and ruined by the
end of the ride, but it is a cheap item to replace. I generally ride with masks
that have reached the end of their useful lifespans. One disadvantage: fogging makes
it impossible to ride with both glasses and mask on, so I end up stowing the former
item in my fanny pack.
I can steer a bike competently enough as a two-eyes and accept
crappier eyesight in exchange for feeling in my cheeks.
Moving from head to torso, my garments are more conventional. I have a flashy neon windbreaker over a puffy layer. Warmth, plus visibility. I don’t always wear the extra reflective vest, but do today, due to the reduced margins and dangerous driving conditions.
So far, the few cars on
the roads have passed slowly and left ample room. Here and there, the tires crunch
over fresh snow, and I stay in low gear. Nothing has stopped me yet.
The snow pants I wear are almost overkill. I can feel sweat
beading on my legs as I crank the biggest hill, but I am infinitely grateful for them as wind whips around me when I swoop down an accompanying grade.
Footwear turns out to be my biggest gear mistake. My slides,
perfect for dressing and undressing quickly, are simply not up to six miles of
riding in the coldest conditions, even though I am in my warmest socks. I scold
myself for not wearing boots as the stinging wind lashes helpless toes.
Door to Door to Door
By the time I reach the last uphill, I am happy for the
warmth of effort.
The back wheel spins out on an icy drift. Clenching teeth, I
hold the handlebars in place and inch my way past.
I crest the hill and the destination is in sight. I think of
all the days when I’ve ridden my car and my coworkers tell me, “Of course you
rode in. You can’t ride your bike in this!
I hope someone asks me today. I’ll let them know the score.
The beams of sunrise play through the spectral winter
branches. I almost feel the warmth. There are hints of spring, in spite of the obscene
cold. Earlier in the year, it was still dark when I got to work. The bird songs seem new and decadent to me. I crouch down
for the final descent.
The parking lot is empty. I don’t bother locking my bike,
but key myself directly into the building and pull out my phone. Of course,
there was an email — sent out about the time that I was taking my bike down the
apartment steps – explaining that the poor road conditions have bought everyone
a day off.
I stomp around until I get some life back into my extremities.
I climb back into the saddle, going home. Woodsmoke, lit DayGlo orange from morning light bright, billows
up from a chimney. I ride along the frozen Mystic River
where plates of brine ice have shattered up against the rocks in lucent piles. I feel my brows
frozen too. At least my legs are still moving.
I think about warm blankets.
“
