Winter Child

I hate winter.

The wind bites my lips, stinging my eyes as it attacks my face. My feet are blocks of ice from repeatedly losing my balance only to plunge unprotected ankles into knee-deep snow. My head hurts.

I pedal on.

Why would anyone want to ride a bike in the winter anyways? It seems unnatural, absurd even. Bike rides are meant for the summer; the sun kissing your shoulders as strawberry juice dries on your chin. Not for cranking your legs furiously on deceptive, uneven snow, only to travel less distance than if you had smartly decided to walk.

Yet here I am. Trekking through the frozen woods on cartoonishly large tires in February. I stifle a groan, in so much agony that I have forgetten about Tiny, my chihuahua companion. A potato-shaped animal that hasn’t moved as much as ten feet in the last two months is now bounding enthusiastically behind me, her skinny little legs working hard to leap above the snow. She looks at me and beams with an open-mouthed smile, tongue lolling about, elated. Grinning back, I accidentally steer my bike off the narrow path into fresh, unpacked snow. My bike and I wobble, than comically plummet sideways into deep powder. The landing is soft, and I feel like a kid again, jumping into snowbanks to experience the joy of being gently cradled by ice crystals. I feel Tiny’s tongue on my cheek.

And just like the falling flurries, it hits me.

Winter is youth.