Last year, we had an unusually mild winter. I hated it. There was no occasion to our rides. Putting on a jacket and some legwarmers for a moderately chilly mid-January jaunt just seems wrong. I love the single digit suffer-fests of frozen fingers and toes. I love rides when I have the road to myself, free of the fair-weather heroes and Hilly Hundred types. I love it when all you can hear is the swishing of the tires over whichever physical state of water that day might have brought and the sound that it makes when it just runs off your saturated body and kit helplessly with nowhere to go.
There is a certain, inexplicable quality of riding in conditions in which others choose not to that makes you want to go faster. It's not just that the cold, rain, snow or hail takes your mind off of the pain you are submitting your legs to; it has something to do with the reason you're out there. It is a reminder that you're not one of the summer peloton, but of something a little more distinguished. You may not be the fastest, but you're doing everything you can to get there, and that's something you can't say about all the people who used to be on the road when the weather was "good".
In closing, let me once again refer you to the Old Velomiskrit:
Fair-weather riding is a luxury reserved for Sunday afternoons and wide boulevards. Those who ride in foul weather – be it cold, wet, or inordinately hot – are members of a special club of riders who, on the morning of a big ride, pull back the curtain to check the weather and, upon seeing rain falling from the skies, allow a wry smile to spread across their face. This is a rider who loves the work.
