Headwind

I bicycle to work everyday rain or shine. I have quite the trustworthy setup with a pair of very useful saddle bags, a fast commuter style bike, and all the lights I need for the early nights of Oregon winters. I like riding in the rain, actually. There's something peaceful and at the same time defiant when riding in a downpour. Aside from the forehead slapping realization that it's just water, riding in the rain brings the vast openness of outside up close. Visibility is limited. Sound is muted and any echoes usually come from splashing gutters along concrete walls. For what it's worth I also like the cold. But if there is one thing I cannot abide it is a headwind.

Nothing kills a ride like a headwind. Some might consider it a challenge. Others might simply ride slower, understanding that mother nature is boss, but I seem unable to submit entirely. Today, for example, was particularly illuminating on this as going to work in the morning I pushed straight into a slow but steady wind that dragged at my wheels all the way to work. I built up a sweat even though I barely broke 15 miles an hour. And to make matters worse, the wind switched direction at the end of the day and the ride home was just as plodding. At first, I scowled into the wind and clenched my teeth.

Somehow I always apply greater meaning to these occurrences. I look for cues to the state of the world, or simply the state of my life, in these tiny difficulties. What did I see in a headwind coming and going? Each trip to work, and each trip from work gives me a spectacular view of downtown Portland from across the river. I live in a spectacular city, I have to say. To me Portland has the warm attractiveness of a well used classic car: a clean style with thankfully little glittery pomp; the simple efficiency that makes living here easy; and a shroud of fantastic mist and rain that for me makes the city ever fresh from behind the clouds.

What greater meaning did the headwind provide for me today? It slowed me down to look.