Dear reader, I went for a bike ride in this yesterday. And now I can't tell if I'm alive or merely the surprise ending of an M. Night Shyamalan movie.
It was that cold.
I honestly cannot tell you how cold it was. I mean, the thermostat read 30 degrees, but that doesn't begin to describe the freezing wind that reached down my throat and jangled my kidneys with its cold, dead fingers, the tiny shards of ice that removed an epidermal layer from my face, and the sense of hopelessness that encompassed me about five minutes into the journey.
But that, no doubt, was because the Dementors were breeding.
I took this picture before the excursion, when all ten fingers were still present and accounted for.
I don't really know what got into me. Did I wake up feeling how tedious it is to be alive? Did I develop a yen for necrotic tissue? I don't know. But this ride changed everything.
I typically follow a certain route that takes me out into the desert, so it's not as if you can change your mind once you've gone down the road a little ways. You either keep going or you'll to end up like one of those maniacs who wander around Mount Everest, brains starving for oxygen, bereft of the common sense to return to base camp.
Except I'm not sure I can blame my behavior on the altitude.
But honestly, dear reader, except for the exquisite pain in my hands, I didn't really care. I'm telling you, it took me right back back to my childhood of running with the wolves. In fact, I'm pretty sure my entire life flashed before my eyes.
When I reached the summit, I noticed a car with Alberta license plates.
"Alright," I thought, "Let's do this thing."
So I pedalled over to the passengers and started asking them if they knew anybody I grew up with. They regarded me with a look that was two parts shock and concern, one part fear.
"Dear, aren't you cold?," one of the ladies asked.
"Well yes, I am, now that you mention it," I said, "But hey, we're all Canadian, right?"
There was an uncomfortable silence and the expressions on their faces clearly said, "We're Canadian. You have done lost your mind."
They offered to give me a ride and I was all, "I don't accept rides from strangers. And unless we can find someone we know in common, then we're strangers."
So I made them sit there until I told them all the Canadians I knew, but as luck would have it, it appears we ran in different circles. Which is actually pretty hard to do up north.
Then they drove off and I rode away, happy to have gotten about 45 "ehs" out of my system.
When I got back to my car, I was so frozen I couldn't even open the door. Using my hands like Muppet paws, I manouvered the key into the lock and managed to get the door open the old-fashioned way (which I had almost forgotten was possible). I sat there in a catatonic state with the heat blasting until I was thawed enough to put my bike on the rack and drive home. Where I made a cup of hot chocolate the temperature of the earth's core.
Ah, dear reader, good times. My Christmas wish of a little winter came early this year and now I am home, surrounded by loved ones who are massaging the life back into my extremeties.
I hope you have a lovely weekend, too.