One Tough Bird and an Open Window

So this weekend was a bit hectic, to say the least. I drove over to PH to hang out with my brother and family to help him get his house ready for their new arrival. CONGRATS GUYS! On the agenda: scraping, painting, patching, mending, cutting, plastering, sanding, vacuuming, and of course, eating and drinking.

The weekend was great. We put in some serious hours. By the time Dad and I finished the upstairs, it was around quittin' time on Saturday evening. We ate dinner, and mumbled through some conversation before everyone plodded off to bed. Scotty and I passed the evening with some male bonding time (watching The Evil Dead), and drinking a few brews.

When I awoke bright and early Sunday morning, little Carys was staring at me from the hallway, calling, "Hoon! Hoooon!" That's her nickname for her uncle. After breakfast we got back to work, and Scotty planted the bug of going for a ride if the weather broke. It had snowed, rained, sleeted and even hailed a bit, all in the past 36 hours. April in Michigan, I guess. I didn't let on to Scotty that I wanted nothing to do with a "Winter" ride, but I was keeping my fingers crossed that the weather would continue to be lousy, mostly because I knew, whether it was raining or shining, that 30 MPH wind wasn't going anywhere.

As I sanded down Scotty's fireplace patch job in the living room, I noticed a Mumma robin hanging out in the front yard. She was standing there, lookin' all pregnant, just staring into the window. Sleet was pelting her, snow was blowing around her, and the wind was whipping leaves past her face. I swear she looked at me and shook her head, as if to say one of two things:

1. Really? It's fricken APRIL! Enough already!!

or

2. Get your candy-@ss out here. It's ain't that bad!!

Regardless of what she was trying to tell me, the weather broke, our window of opportunity had opened, and despite my half-hearted protests, we geared up, and hit the steeds. We got outside and the weather was beautiful... well, beautiful except for that damnable W-SW wind that clocked in at a cool 25-30 MPH. Nice.

We pedaled out to the Southbound turn, and my heart sank; the wind hit us both square in the nose. Scotty, his usual stoic self, took the lead for the first short leg of our trip. As my legs began to heat up, I noticed that I was feeling pretty good. I zipped ahead of Scotty and took a respectable turn at the front, pulling us through the wind, allowing Scotty to take a quick breather in my slipstream.

Turn after turn, we battled the angry winds. It was such a strong crosswind at times, that we were almost riding side-by-each, in order to find the pocket which afforded us the much-needed rest. At one point, the wind gusted so fiercely, that it blew Scotty sideways, nearly causing him to crash into me. If it weren't for his ninja-like speed and reflexes, coupled with his superior cycling abilities, we might have ended up a heap of twisted metal and tangled body parts on the side of the road.

When we finally arrived in St. Clair, the legs still felt pretty strong. We pushed, according to Scotty's expertise, a respectable 17-18 MPH into a pretty nasty headwind. "Great teamwork," he said to me at one point. This was quite a compliment, since I'm used to Scotty pulling about 65-70% of the time, and me giving him a rest the other 30-35% of the time, though most days he never really needed it.

"Looks like we'll be fighting a crosswind on the way back again," he said.

"I dunno, brother... seems that the winds of fate have shifted!" We set out for our return trip.

We settled into a comfortable rhythm, our feet stamping out a rapid pace on the pedals. Scott noted that we were pushing around 26-27 MPH. I grinned, pleased with the efforts that my wickets were churning out today...with the help of a hefty tailwind, of course.

Mile after mile ticked off, until at last, we were near our cool-down zone.

"Race ya to the white LeBaron," Scotty taunted.

Foolishly, I took the bait. I clicked twice and stood on the pedals to rev up my RPMs. Scott, I noticed, settled quietly into my slipstream. I settled into the saddle now, realizing, almost immediately, my mistake. The car was over 200 yards away at the start of our little race, and I had already spent the majority of my energy.

I could hear Scotty downshift, and begin to move past me. I stood on the pedals, pushing down and yanking up as furiously as my legs would allow. But to no avail. He breezed past me, settling back into his saddle, passing the makeshift finish line five to six bike lengths in front of me. He looked back and grinned. "Not bad, kid. Not bad at all. Shame we didn't have the Speedos with us. I bet we hit around 36 or 37 on that last sprint!"

I grumbled an inaudible, "Thanks." Thankful, at least, that he didn't whip out the Contador pistols as he flew past me.

But I was grinning, in spite of myself. I couldn't help but bask in the cold Port Huron sunshine, my legs and lungs burning, my face flush from the cold. What a great ride today. And then, as if on cue, the snow began to fly. Mother Nature had closed our riding window, but Scotty and I seized the opportunity and filled it with another great memory.