My dreams of hitting the road late into the season remain unrealized. Gone are the fast days of fall, the blur of color on a warm day, and sneaking out for an afternoon ride.
Winter is here and even though the days are getting longer, there is no end in sight. Only February lies ahead—a month of cold, of gray, of Groundhog Day. It is truly the dead of winter, the time of year when the more literary among us read the Russian novels that delve into the bleak realities of the human condition. I’ve opted for a regular pint at Zeno’s.
I dream of riding, of quick turns and lazy afternoons on back roads. I keep a list of small towns and promising diners. Of the places I remember from childhood and last week. I map them out on my topo, the same one where I log trout streams. Spring—or warmer weather, I don't care which—can't get here soon enough.