Winter is a distant memory of a deafening white landscape, replaced by musty moist scents and stark earthy tones of a maritime early spring. Wind pounds the water through everything, the ground displacing percipitation it can't absorb.
Tracers fade out behind my wheels as we course through tiny villages and back roads over here. I love to ride in these conditions, thinking of the Spring Classics, or the history of the paths we have chosen. The climbs are a harsh reality of Newton's theory, steep, out of the saddle, grunts, sometimes stretching on longer than we had hoped.
Upon retuning home, my German Grandfather says, "Das ist kein wetter zum radfahren."
Genau haben wir gefahren...