The spring transition comes slowly. Streams open and the March snow pulls back from sidewalks as the sun adjusts its downward angle. Geese fly northward. Tree branches, while still bare and gray-brown, sway instead of clattering together like old bones. Green begins to creep throughout our yards.
Our houses turn a bit toasty. The furnace kicks-in and we wonder why maybe a short-sleeved shirt.
Plastic comes off windows, but only in that one upstairs room that always tends to be a bit warm anyway.
In April, we throw our heads out the front door testing the air temps wondering which jacket to grab. But there are no bright eyes here. Blinking, squinting skeptics, we are.
Wow...other people live in those places across the street!
As a group, we aren't quite sure what to do with a sunny week of temps in the high 70s. Unseasonably warm. Our transition sequence has been interrupted, and we're a bit outta sorts at being so brazenly thrust into summer. We squint at the brightness eeking through our sunglasses. We doff the cycling jacket in favor of the vest...which is never left at home, but in the jersey pocket. Rides begin with tights and arm warmers and end with them stuffed and tied wherever they can be. We'd rather sweat through an extra under-layer than do without. We can't quite be convinced to let go of our trappings. Our heritage insists upon it.
We do start to forget ourselves, though, just a bit. The pink on our noses is testament.
However, Midwesterners know that after a few idyllic days something will come along to balance-out our measured joy. It's just as well. At yesterday's ride, I heard more than once about today's rain prediction: I hope it does rain, so I don't have to be out riding and can get things done around the house. We need rest. We're tired from being rushed along.
Indeed. Today the wind and rain arrived.
We knew it would.
- The Bag's regrouping and resting