Bicycles and canoes

I rode the bus today, from Constellation Place to Sandy Hill.  Along the way, I noticed that the snow had largely melted from the recreational trails along the transitway.  A few patches of crusty snow and ice lingered back in the trees.  But otherwise the paths looked clear and dry.

In some years, I've ridden through the winter.  In 2009, though, I traded my ancient, first generation mountain bike for a lighter, more agile hybrid -- something more suitable for longer rides in the company of my athletic wife.  No more powering a mass of indestructible, rusting steel along in the wake of Sue's light, swift road bike.  But also no more powering through the snow and ice on fat, nobbly tires, even if I was willing to expose my new toy to the salt and spray.  My winter riding came to end.  It's now been four months since I pedaled anything but a stationary bike at the gym.

As I watched the trails rolling along beside the bus, I began to count the days until I could pull my bike out of the storage room.  Could I go this week, or would I need to wait until after our move?  Would the snow be gone from under the trees by April?  Could I bundle myself adequately against the cold, or would the spring chill find its way to the line of perspiration down my spine?  I won't really know until I try it.  But the speculation brought me good cheer, and the blue sky looked a little bluer.

And if biking is not far off, then can canoing be far behind?  Today my canoe lies covered in snow in a corner of the Co-op.  Hopefully it hasn't been struck by ice from the eaves, or cracked by the chill of deep winter night.  Hopefully, I will find it intact and needing only a quick cleaning and wax to make it ready.  Then the best part of my year will really begin:  explorations along creeks and marshes, fishing in Constance Bay, camping in Algonquin Park.  I can already anticipate the feel of the paddle in my hands and the pleasant strain in my shoulder as I plant and pull the blade in that first, sweet j-stroke.  The canoe will glide from the shore.  A breeze will begin to take the bow, and I'll compensate with a bit more twist of the paddle.  A chuckling ripple will spread from the bow as I take the second stroke.  I'll settle more comfortably into position, and find my rhythm.  In a few minutes, I may pause to trail a fly behind the canoe.  I'll look about me, take a deep breath, and wonder how I made it through the winter.