Vanilla Ice

When I sent out our weekly "Foothills Masters Cycling Team" email to announce Saturday morning's ride, I received a larger than usual number of "No way!" and "You guys are idiots!" responses. Hey, dudes, my calendar says it's Springtime, so I didn't think a 6:30am start was unreasonable at all.

Perhaps I was mistaken.

Laurel had early morning commitments and wanted to finish the ride by 8:30. And you know me -- I'm a morning person -- I prefer to do my exercise before the day gets ruined by all the coffee-addict zombies who start crowding the streets once the sun comes up. I figured I'd just bundle up a little more than usual, straddling that thin line between "too cold at the start" and "too hot once I really start working." I put on a couple of pairs of socks, multiple layers of shirts and pants, and made darn sure I had my running gloves all snugged up before I left home.

Two things were working against me. One was my poor memory; I am sure that at some forgotten time in the past, I was well aware that temperatures below freezing were not conducive to comfortable bike rides. Somehow this fact had escaped me -- I looked at the weather report and thought "Hey, it'll be into the 30s in a few hours. No problem."

In the 30s is warm? Was I thinking in Celcius? Or was I forgetting that bike riding and running have completely different temperature-to-clothing ratios? Whatever the reason, idiocy prevailed.

The second (and ultimately decisive) detriment was that the ride would begin with a significant downhill leg. From Ken Caryl heading north, the C470 bike path plunges into a deep valley. This lowland is a great place for a golf course and coyote dens, but is a recipe for frostbite when an idiot on a bike goes flying down the hill at 30 mph before he has done any athletic warmup at all. (Can you say "wind chill"?) The icy airstream stripped what little body heat I had generated, so by the time I started up the WalMart hill, I was already hypothermic.

I knew Laurel and the others would be waiting, though, and I kept repeating my morning mantra: "It'll warm up when the sun rises. It'll warm up when the sun rises." I kept riding—with one hand on the bars and the other tucked into my armpit, and then would switch (which is one of those activities that definitely deserves the "Don't try this at home" label.)

Oh, I could go on and on about the suffering I endured, as well as the macho posturing I attempted to convince myself that I could handle the fact that my core temperature was heading toward the single digits. I tried my best to stoke the internal fires by riding hard, but the cold air rushing by robbed me of heat faster than I could produce it. The sun finally did come up, but when I realized that I could not stop shaking and was riding at about half my normal speed, I knew it was time to throw in the towel. Laurel (the only other swimmer brave enough to show up for the ride) was intelligently bundled up, and had ridden on ahead. She probably thought I was right behind her, or assumed that a short wait would be all that was needed for me to catch back up. But I wasn't coming. I pulled over at the park's boat check shack, assumed a fetal huddle, and snarfed down all the food I had with me.

The extra energy (and shelter from the building) helped me to warm up slightly. But when Laurel returned a few minutes later, it was obvious to both of us that I was not likely to overcome my heat deficit without a source of external warmth. When she offered to abort the workout and drive me home, I didn't hesitate. We'd still have to ride 3 miles or so to get back to her vehicle, but it seemed a better option than just standing by the road shivering and whining.

It took food/fluids, a hot bath, and several hours of fingertip agony before I felt functional again. I still haven't gotten over my shame about my total lack of adherence to the Boy Scout motto, but I hope I've learned a valuable lesson about acceptable temperature zones for biking. Again.

Hmm. Since I'm obviously senile, I guess I'll have to ask you, my friends, for help. Next time you see me jump on my bike when the temperature is in the 20s and I'm planning to start by coasting downhill -- please slap me. Hard. Thank you.

In the meantime, can you figure out the connection among these images? And for extra credit, explain how this particular collection was inspired by the frigid winter tale I've shared here? Good luck, and have a great day!