What memories do snowy days bring you? As a kid, I had a monster hill to sled down, a small narrow creek to ice skate, and enough snow to build a proper snow person. This week on the East Coast we finally got snow after a two-year drought.

Detour on a Snowy Day

“Are you sure you want to ride?” my friend asked, eyeing the gloves, balaclava face mask, and biking booties on the kitchen table.

            All the winter gear that had lived a quiet, dark closeted life, forever waiting in the wings like an understudy needed to perform. An outside amphitheater waited.

Meanwhile, blustering wind and swirling snow also waited while we debated: Was it too cold to ride?    

Frankly, I was a fair-weather rider. Yet here I was on this January day, eager to pedal through Valley Forge Park, renowned for its harsh winters. In 1777-78, George Washington and his Continental Army set up a winter encampment in this expansive open field that’s now part of the National Park system. Washington’s troops endured snowy, rainy, and freezing weather: it was a normal winter in Pennsylvania.

I had limited winter biking adventures. I had fond memories of a New Year’s Day riding ritual even though it ended with frozen faces, frosty eyebrows, and numbed fingers and toes. A pot of homemade spicy chili waited on our friend’s stove making the effort worth it. Each bowl served with a heap of bragging rights for finishing the ride.  

Like an icicle on a sunny day, that memory was melting away. I looked forward to creating new cycling memories.

We planned to bike from my house to Valley Forge National Historical Park, where we’d meet friends to ride. In the fall, the park showed off its stunning red, orange, and yellow foliage. The autumn air was fresh and crisp. In winter, crisp air became a biting, stinging air. I knew this fact.

But I was excited to be with the attractive 6’ 2” brown-eyed man standing in my kitchen. We’d met after a ride at a quirky English pub called the Wookie Hole.

That morning he arrived with his custom-made Dresens bicycle, ready to go out. Or not. I was fit and ready to ride. It was only 25 miles. Looking back, perhaps I should have questioned my mental fitness.   

My hardy Midwest image was at stake: we were riding. The roads were clear and dry, and the white stuff wasn’t sticking.  

“Come play outside,” Mr. Winter had been tempting us with a whisper. Then he began taunting us. We put on our extra layers outside, which we hoped would acclimatize our bodies. I stood on one foot, stretching the uncooperative neoprene shoe-shaped booties over my cycling shoes. Left foot first, then right foot. I hopped and stomped, nestling the shoe inside the galosh-like boot for a snug fit.

The snow globe world was quiet. The silence was spoiled only by the noisy voices in my head.  We’ll have fun. We’ll freeze. I have to ride. You’ll regret it. We’ll have fun.

Fun won, and we rode off. My legs felt like wood, stiff and heavy with less flexibility. Breathing was hard and staying motivated was harder. The coldness created slowness. Funny, but I noticed we were still in the neighborhood.

            A few miles later, we reached the starting point where we met the group of hardcore bikers encased in ski gear, looking ready for the downhill slopes. With little fanfare, the riders pedaled uphill.

These cyclists sprinted ahead, averaging 16-18 miles per hour (mph). I won’t disparage fast riders of which I am not and never will. My pace hoovered around 12-13 mph.

We didn’t see them after they crested the hill past the Memorial Arch, a memorial honoring the sacrifices Washington’s troops made nearly 200 years earlier. 

We were alone now.

I had expected all levels of riders. But I had also expected a warmer, brighter day. Instead, visibility was poor, and the wind gusted cold. Was it time to surrender to winter? Or perhaps pay respects to the historic camp and then head back home? 

No, not me.

Because Mr. Handsome turned his head and smiled at me. Somehow, I knew he was content to cycle alongside me and me with him. How far would we go today? As warm and wonderful as I felt inside to have company, the low gray skies created a chilling effect.    

Then, I remembered a coffee shop ahead if we detoured. Hot coffee was an incentive to keep pedaling forward. We found a warm refuge serving hot beverages. One tasty blondie brownie, expresso and one cappuccino restored us.    

While thawing out, we talked about everything and nothing. We stayed so long that our legs stiffened and rebelled as we rose. Outside, our journey started anew. The sun shone and the snowflakes stopped. I was warmer, lighter, and faster.    

Our snowy ride and coffee detour led us to a lifetime of riding together — because my riding companion that day became the man I married.  

My hardy Midwest image never really was at stake.