wingman

This morning I had to give a talk in lab, recapitulating a workshop that I attended almost half a year ago. I hardly remembered anything, and only started preparing the presentation last night at ten. Against all odds, the talk went well, and I managed to fill three quarters of an hour will words that seemed to make sense to the audience. Urbandictionary.com calls this winging it.

As a reward, and because the forcast rain was nowhere to be seen, I left lab shortly after three to go on a quick afternoon ride. It was the perfect day, especially considering it's the middle of February. The temperature hit double digits (Celsius scale) for the first time this year, the sun was shining as if it wanted to melt all the snow up in the mountains today, and clouds left over from yesterday's storm gave the sky a dramatic appearance.

Since I hadn't ridden in about a month, was ecstatic to be back on my bike. A good tailwind was pushing me out of town, and soon I was dancing up the Col de Quatre Seigneurs as if the road was flat. Endorphins had silenced all the pain molecules that normally run up and down my legs banging pots and pans, or whatever it is they do to cause me misery. As soon as the gradient picked up, I zoned. With a wild grin all over my face I followed the band of blacktop right in front of me. On my left I could see dark trees, mostly brown and grey, trying to recover from the winter that had interrupted their lives, while on the other side a magnificient valley opened up. In the distance, the snow-covered peaks of the Alps were reflecting the afternoon sun that was shining strongly. The Taillefer, a most impressive giant with bald, flat faces glistened light, white and bright. It seemed transparent behind the dark olive of the coniferous slopes to its feet.

I was flowing and hardly noticed the climb. No car disturbed me peace. For thirty endless minutes, I was all by myself. Only the hurried humming of my chain and the hissing of my breath reminded me that I was on my bike. Ah, the bliss of road riding. Finally, I reached the top. The col is just 787 meters, but that's 550 meters higher than where I started out from, or 1800 feet for the metrically challenged.

On the way down, on the other side, faded cheers on the pavement were visible from last year's Dauphiné. By now, it had got noticeably darker and colder. The clouds weren't just remnants of storms in the past, they were charged for action. It was time to head back. I had hardly taken my helmet off at home when rain began to beat down onto the roads of Grenoble still busy with rush-hour traffic.