The ache in my toes migrates up to my shins and finally settles nicely into the Achilles,
Constant no matter how many times I step off the bike and run next to it,
Keeping up, trying in vain to coax the blood back into the ends.
The cold bites through the high end fabric that works for the first few hours,
It's now too far in to expect anything shy of a hot tub and a fire to warm my core.
Still I'm enjoying my pedals,
Turning over the cadence that carries me into spring and brings a smile.
It doesn't lessen the suffer I'll get to feel in a few months, it only succeeds in polishing it.
I don't want the Spring to be new to me, I want to hash out every eventuality
Pre ride every second of the first few races a 100 times.
Taste my own blood that should be back in my toes,
But instead lingers in the back of my throat.
Outside pushing through Winter,
Maybe when the others are warm on the couch,
Not all of the work is for the races, But, it is always for me.
One of maybe three things I might be sure of is the process, enjoying the days in the rain and snow and the constant upkeep of an aging machine. Without all of that would a good result (whatever that is) feel as good? Would you want it if it was easy, or, it came without effort? Some days you get the sun and other days you get inches of standing water looking to derail your efforts. Better that way, I think, to know that work was getting done, dishes to be broken but that it didn't have to be in the rain or snow or shit both days.