Everyday I expect it to be 75 degrees and sunny. Well, maybe "expect" isn't quite the word. Every day I desperately hope that will be so, and I believe that expecting it just might make it happen.
But, until today, that's never been the case.
It snowed on our second ride day in Alaska. I slept wearing every article of clothing I owned in British Columbia. Oregon recieved the most rain in recent history, 12 inches of it pounding down on us in October. My chamois remained constantly damp all through California. Chilly headwinds slammed us through Arizona and New Mexico. Only now, mid-January, have we had my ideal day.
We shed our coats in the first few miles, and cruised quickly with good tailwind. We slathered on sunscreen, met a few Southern Tier cyclist friends, and coasted into Sanderson, Texas before 3pm.
While my teammates chastise me for my naive expectation of perfection, I think it's the optimism that helps me survive the dreary days.
The past week since our holiday break have been blissfully simple. We take no turns and ride in contented silence. It reminds me of our good ol' days on the Cassier Highway, where we had no concerns or plans other than calorie intake. We've slept in a hostel made of paper mache, warmed up by a campfire kindled by a friendly rancher, had our cellphones charge us international fees from thinking we entered Mexico, shared stories with new touring cyclist friends, and ate way too many tacos.
While I logically know these days of sunny perfection will not last, I'll still optimistically expect them to be. After all, the hope of sunshine makes every pedalstroke all the better.