Wind

For the second time this year, my bicycle ride home on Wednesday took me an hour and a half. It was a gruelingly crawlful evening commute; whenever the wind let up even a little, I felt like I effortlessy burst ahead for a few yards before it whisked against me once more.

All I could do was chug along and try to think happy thoughts about other things. There was nothing at all else to do; wind is something not fought with valiant hopes of victory.

When my brother-in-law tooted past me in his pickup truck, I gave a friendly wave knowing full well that if I frantically and successfully beckoned for him to pull over and wait for me, I would think better of forsaking my exercise routine and tell him to drive on. Much later, when he tooted past me in the other direction, I again waved and told myself I was making too much progress even to want a ride.

I arrived home both exhausted and invigorated, the latter albeit mostly by the thought that I wouldn’t venture out on my bike for at least a day or two.

On Friday morning I hit the pedals again, this time without a high wind warning and in hopes that the morning gusts would help at least as much as hinder my ride, which they did. The tremendous gust from the poultry feed truck barreling past helped me, too, with a blast of forced air to my back that boosted my ride and spirits if only for a moment.

Of course, the afternoon ride would be the true test of the wind’s helpfulness, and I soon pleasantly realized that by that time it had either pretty much petered out or decided that it was going my way as long as I was heading in the same direction.

I made that ride in the best time ever, fast enough even to know it while I still rode.