Last Friday temperatures were around 70. A week later they are less than half that and the ground that was vowing green has returned to white.
March is the month of delayed gratification, dreams deferred, and barely credible hopes that maybe tomorrow will be better than today. It offers spring like a cryptic note from a long-forgotten love that leaves you wondering if she wants to see you again or is threatening a restraining order.
She wants me; she wants me NOT.
This week the air is cold, the streets mined with slush and the icy run-off from snow melt. But last week at this time I was taking my first outdoor bike ride of the season.
Usually I delay until the street sweepers pass through the township, sucking up the chips and cinders put down to aid traction during the snowy season. And it was fairly windy.
But I couldn’t wait this year. Perhaps with the climate reversal looming I just felt the need to take advantage of the warmth. Maybe it was a subliminal weather ritual; a two-wheeled dance beckoning spring.
Whatever the reason I took off on a 25-mile loop that runs along the Delaware River. Given hills, the head-wind and my determination not to use my asthma inhaler, I figured about 75 minutes.
Thirty minutes into the ride I was valiantly grinding against 20 mph gusts on a flat that leads past the eagle eyries and into Portland, PA when my phone rang.
It was my youngest needing a ride home from her activity two hours ahead of schedule. So I turned around and started to peddle hard for home. At least the wind would be at my back.
Then I threw a chain. Then I breathed a bug. Then I almost got killed by a driver who attempted to pass me on a blind curve and had to slam on her brakes because there was a stop sign on the far side of that arc. I slid momentarily on the loose pebbles, skidded upright into a turn, then loudly blessed the driver’s insensate stupidity while accelerating away.
May the road rise to meet you, right in the face.
When I got to the house, my daughter was already home, having cajoled a friend’s mom into giving her a ride.
March is such a trickster, calling me to come play then leaving when I arrive. Asking me to come over, then sending me home as soon as I show. Offering a brief but beguiling kiss, the barest touch of a warm hand on my face, then disappearing without a backwards glance.
I think Spring loves me. Perhaps she loves me not.
Wish she would call.
Recent Comments