It’s that time, I suppose. Winter in Pittsburgh, while often dry, is a gray affair. The sun pokes out for minutes at a time, perhaps three times a week. Thankfully I have a bank of windows behind me, and those fleeting rays flash into my gray cubicle, only to be gone again. It’s not dark, like the gathering clouds before a summer storm, just gray, muted. Years ago, before I started commuting regularly, constantly, by bicycle, I would say that I’d rather have snow in this sort of weather, for at least the white would brighten things a bit. Now, I’ll deal with the gray, and the wind, and the cold, rather than the snow and slush, and its effect on the roads and, more importantly, traffic. I go about my business, every morning piling on layers, wool on top of wool, and I pack my saddlebag and I’m on my way. There’s a certain comfort in the routine, I suppose, and it’s that routine (and my own stubborness) that gets me on the road every morning. Fittingly, I’m on a gray bicycle. A small comfort is that the days grow longer. On days when the clouds are thin, or perhaps broken, it is not quite twilight when I leave the office at 5:00 PM. Should I choose, I can even turn off my headlight, though I rarely do. It is dark 30 minutes later when I hoist the gray bike on our back porch, but the edges of the horizon still glow, a reminder of what is to come.

As this is my first winter at this job, my co-workers are puzzled when my helmeted head bobs above cubicle walls on cold, windy mornings. They wonder “how can I stand it?” I only smile and shrug, and sometimes say “this is nothing” and mean it–I know it will be colder, wetter, windier. I count my blessings. There are days that, when crossing the Birmingham Bridge, that I feel like a tiny bug, buffeted here and there by the constant wind that rushes along the winter. Then I think “at least it’s dry” and spin along–the deluded optimism of a man a few beans short of a burrito. So it goes.

It’s going to be only 15 degrees Fahrenheit tomorrow. At least it’s Sunday, though I know that the night won’t bring any warmth for Monday morning. I have been more cavalier in my dressing habits this year, trying to ride in “normal” clothes unless the weather is wet. Some mornings, this means I won’t begin to warm up until I reach Oakland. Single digit temperates require a bit more diligence, though, so I’ll likely slip on a pair of long underwear under my pants come Monday morning. And perhaps an extra wool jersey, and even a scarf.

Posted on 19 January 2008