Love in the Rains: Oregon Riding

On my 38th birthday, I needled my husband into joining the weekly mountain bike ride at the local cycle shop. The 6 p.m. start, in summer, ensures plentiful twilight and a forested reprieve from southern Oregon valley heat. However, this was not summer. I was born on Valentine's Day, which is celebrated each and every February. An early evening roll out means hard dark and harder temperatures.

My first night ride. Borrowed lights, not enough layers. Rain the whole time. Forty frigid degrees. Out and back up a remote fire road hill. Lost a rider from the group, briefly, and we considered aloud whether he'd been eaten. My battery faded half way down, and I had to ride uncomfortably close to someone else and borrow his beam. If I didn't keep up, then I was alone in a rolling brown sphere, seeing nothing, with the sensation of going nowhere, and fast. Except maybe off the side and down the canyon. Cold so pronounced my legs were banging against the bike from shivers, and I was grateful for any feeling at all in my brake fingers.

Did I mention how cold it was?

Returned to the bike shop for the free jambalaya, sat around with Doug and our friends and planned car pools to distant races. Best birthday of my whole life. It only took me two days to feel warm again. On the outside at least.

The Crash Test Babies in the fifteen minutes they were clean and happy at the same time on Christmas Eve.