150 words about 70 miles and the myth of winter pace
Elliott Road is so much more pleasant westbound. We were headed east. It was a strong group, but “winter pace.” Everyone knew the road, except Kevin from San Diego. Cross the little bridge, road pocked with holes, indistinguishable from the shadows.
Field on the left; subdivision on the right, with a German shepherd that barks every single time we pass. The grade is deceptive, the geographic equivalent of a slight headwind. The gap to Kat’s wheel grows, and I’m weighing a harder effort against the knowledge that just up ahead we’ll regroup. And that I’m only 25 in on a 70 mile ride. Bart’s next to me and he lets the wheel in front of him go, too. When we rolled out of the shop he had asked me: “Why do we ride slower in the winter?” The ideal of winter pace. I said, “Actually we don’t. It’s a myth.”
