I dislike wind. On a cellular level. I do not think this is out of the ordinary—most humans do not like this element, unless they are sailors and that’s an even weirder lot than cyclists (sorry sailor, you know it’s true). Turns out, my new home in the Arkansas Valley of Colorado is known for wind. The dump closes for it. Businesses have signs on their front doors reading “In high winds, use side door.” Oy vey.
I can take the cold, just add more layers and spend all of your writer’s riches on flash equipment. I can even take clouds and snow and sometimes rain (see above for remedy). But wind? Ugh. It assaults the eyes, shoots you sideways into traffic on your road bike, whips your hair into your mouth, frays your last nerve.
Some years ago I was harassed into renting and riding road bikes in Hawaii, on the Big Island. Boyfriend said it would be “fun” while acknowledging the likelihood of howling headwinds (in both directions, as a matter of course). As I grunted along hurling internal epithets hither and yon, fully and completely engrossed in a stem-to-stern bitch-a-thon, a rider appeared on my left and startled me to the point of levitation with his simple “Good Morning.” I think I yelped a little then replied with my own garbled “Gerdd Mooring” way too late for him to actually hear.
The pace car following him, a recalled tidbit of island gossip, and my vast powers of deduction informed me that I’d just been dusted by Lance Armstrong. And so was the boyfriend who lured me out into this whirling dervish of a ride, so that was cool.
There are a number of named, malevolent winds across the globe: the Sirocco from the Sahara, the warm Fohn winds of the Alps, the hot, dry Santa Ana’s in Southern California. The Tramontana in Spain is said to bring madness to those who endure it, and a short story by Gabriel Garcia Marquez of the same name will haunt you, as will Joan Didion’s “The Santa Ana’s.”
“There is something uneasy in the Los Angeles air this afternoon, some unnatural stillness, some tension. What it means is that tonight a Santa Ana will begin to blow, a hot wind from the northeast whining down through the Cajon and San Gorgonio Passes, blowing up sand storms out along Route 66, drying the hills and the nerves to flash point.”
Having lived in Southern California and experienced the Santa Ana’s, nothing captures the experience like Didion and Marquez’ writing on the topic (please read them). I’ve gone down a rabbit-hole, but you, dear cyclist, know what it is to be caught out in a windstorm. It is super poopy.
As we enter our sixth straight day of howlers here in Chaffee County, I’ve moved the trainer from the shed into my bedroom, and the next day I actually attached it, and the day after that I put a towel on the handlebars. Today I may add a water bottle to the ensemble. I’ve yet to actually ride it, but that big move might be coming soon.
