Push.

It's cold outside. You've checked the weather online, been outside, peeked out the windows. You know it's windy and somewhere in the twenties. You know the wind is not on your side. It's snowed a little.

You're inside where it's warm. You see cars drive by; tiny bubbles of comfort locking their inhabitants away from the outside environs. Everyone in your office is driving home. Everyone you know is probably driving home, warm and protected.

There's a thousand ways to get out of The Ride. Friends are sympathetic when the conditions are adverse; they offer rides when it's dark and cold. A part of you is constantly trying to talk you out of riding. You learn to stop listening. Experience teaches you that you'll regret it later, when you're at home on your couch, warm and sluggish.

The Ride is hard. The wind is pressing against you, an invisible hand that pushes you back and to the side. Each intersection brings the stronger gusts of unfettered wind tunnels. You ride miles on a road that's legally a highway, and up a steep intersection that proves to be a trial even on the best of days. Some times you have the strength of will and body to stand up on the pedals and pump, others you focus on your technique, getting the most out of each rotation.

The traffic lights are kind and you only have to stop once or twice. A single car is waiting behind you and passes respectfully after you've cleared the intersection. It's late and only three or four cars pass you at a time. The colder the weather, the more slack you get from motorists.

A few times you find you can't breathe. Cresting each overpass the wind and the cold and your own exertion steals your breath. Each inhalation is quick and short; it seems like hyperventilation. You know that if you keep pushing it will pass, like all things. The cold passes. Pain passes. Exhaustion passes. You just can't quit.

Your legs are dumb and beautiful. They won't let you quit. Sometimes you forget you're pedaling; you just move with speed and grace. They take care of you. And inside their silent power is a promise and a loyalty that suddenly has you weeping.

You haven't won anything. There are no numbers or figures, no finish line and no opponents. You are alone in the cold. Without inspiration or prodding, internal or external, you have overcome something. It simply happens. And you weep. Still moving at an agreeable clip, you're laughing and crying at the beauty of your body, of the night, of life.

Alone on a road you've traveled hundreds of times, suddenly you're joined by an unexpected satori.

Without the struggle of the wind and the cold, it never would have come. And if you tried to find it on another day with the same conditions, you wouldn't find it. All you can do is treasure it while it rides along with you.

Happy trails.

- David