A few years ago I hated mountain biking. Heck, half a year ago I never made it through a ride without becoming completely enraged.
It scared me. I wanted to be fearless. I wanted to like it. But I stunk. So I cursed. I screamed. I nearly swore it off. (Let’s be honest, breaking my leg on the MTB did not help the relationship.)
Then, one day last August, it clicked. That fateful outing at Murphy Hanrehan I, gasp, had fun. I wanted to keep going. I laughed. I swore, but not in the same frustrated way. I fell. I scraped. I bruised. But I enjoyed every moment. I started craving singletrack like Chicago-style pizza or raspberry chocolate chip ice cream.
It’s been quite the love affair ever since. So much so that I scoffed at winter “snowing” on our parade. I told Chris that I wanted to keep riding. I read about these crazy people who studded their tires and rode the trails all winter. I wanted to be crazy, too. He knew a few of these guys. And, so, the two of us figured it out. After a prolonged DIY tire-studding project, we went on our inaugaral “ice bike” ride this weekend.
No trails yet. Due to lack of time we just tooled down to Lake Harriet and rode around on it. The snow-covered singletrack is now calling my name. The months until spring feel that much more tolerable knowing that my off-season riding may now consist of more than mundane trainer sessions.
