Snow, Bikes, Whiskey
Daniel Wakefield Pasley has a three-inch icicle hanging from the bill of his cycling cap. Really. I wish I was kidding. Actually, I wish that it was my icicle. On my cap.
Carrie G. has a roll-up sled stuffed into the back pocket of her cycling jersey as she rides away from me on a single-speed ‘cross bike. A can in her other jersey pocket looks suspiciously like a beer.
Sal’s toes are frozen and we have a long ride home, so we turn around, but not before an important stop.
“I have something that you’re going to like.” he says. Then he pulls out what looks like a cell phone from the early nineties. “Let’s make the call.”
“I think we need to make the call.”
With that, he unscrews the cap on the antenna of the “phone” and hands it to me and I tip it back until the sweet taste of Woodford’s Reserve hits my lips. Fire in the belly!
The liquid courage sends me into a wicked speed wobble as I slide my way down Thurman, but I manage to save it just in the nick of time. Sal holds his breath as he watches from behind and regrets handing me the “cell phone”.
The HEED is frozen in my water bottle and the toe-warmers are starting to lose their edge. Heading east for almost the entire return trip, the wind is in our faces, ripping snow in wild patterns.
Slippery front steps. Hot cocoa. Sal goes back out for provisions and returns unscathed.
The blizzard roars on all night and we take to the neighborhood streets with mugs in hand, tromping north to Hawthorne, then back south toward Division, and finally east to our neighborhood diner, Sckavones.
Spanish coffees and snow melting on jackets. Christmas lights. Mayhem on the local news.
Helmet cam footage from the bike ride is imminent, in the meantime there’s still shots from the Neighborhood Adventure Hike.