Midstokke: Finding winter salvation on a stationary bike

I used to believe there is nothing quite as pointless as a bike that goes nowhere. That was before I understood the merits of climate-controlled comfort and cardiac health – two things that seem to increase in value as I age.

Also, I’m concerned winter weather exposure will wizen me before it wisens me. The latter is seemingly slow in its approach, while the former offers shocking prequels faster than I can apply anti-wrinkling creams. Which I assume is just rubbing butter on one’s face, but I’ve done little research.

In a divergence from my usual tactics of battling Seasonal Affective Disorder (aka: Living In North Idaho Past November Syndrome) by running winter miles in the great outdoors, I will stare at my garage wall all winter long. I share this inspiring space with a broken engine in a laundry basket, no less than 14,000 labeled rubber bins with contents not resembling their labels, and the boxed debris of the latest Costco trip. Contemplating what might actually be in the bins keeps my mind occupied for at least the first 40 minutes.

Before you think I’m using the pretense of being an aging Victorian aristocrat to ride my bike indoors, let me clarify: It’s December and I’m building a house. Because said house is being built, my current job is all around the outside of that house during most daylight hours.

I submit this week’s forecast as evidence of my undeniable hardiness: Heavy rain and 37 degrees, some flood warnings, and, oh yeah, that foot of snow that is now a sort of slush pool around the perimeter of the foundation.

“So we don’t need, like, a French drain or something around the house?” I asked my husband. He said no. This has no relevance whatsoever to this story. I’m only including it here so I have proof later when my house floats off the side of the mountain.

Until now, I’ve been bragging about being the siding crew with the kind of arrogant bravado that only the naive and not-yet-humbled can brandish.

“You’ll need to tell your siding crew …” the HVAC guy says.

“Ahem. You’re lookin’ at her,” I say.

“You waiting until spring then?”

“Do I look soft?”

In fairness, I was probably still wearing my prewinter Birkenstocks and they don’t seem to earn me a lot of carpenter credibility. And while I don’t look exactly soft now, I do look soggy, cold and maybe a little stupid.

It is times like these that my imagination serves me best. I’ve been standing beneath the clean line of a metal roof trying to install a soffit detail for two days, while pretending the steady stream of crisp, clear water rushing over my head and into my jacket is a refreshing Hawaiian waterfall. The THWACK! of the nailing gun muffled through my ear plugs is merely distant Indigenous drums.

I also imagined the framers being done six weeks ago. My contribution this month was supposed to be wallpaper selections and YouTube shorts on how to pretend to be a wallpaper hanger. The good thing about having such an active imagination is that it allows me to pretend to be many things: siding contractor, painting contractor, plaster contractor, interior designer.

After all, one shouldn’t let reality or the laws of physics deter them from their hopes and dreams.

My plan to dabble in December weather in carefully prescribed doses of training and bright Smartwool has been thwarted by a build schedule as fickle as a Magic 8 Ball. Which, presumably, is how the framers decide whether to work on any given day.

Maybe the lack of control over, well, anything, is what compelled me to sign up for the 24-hour bike race Spokane hosts in May. I needed a schedule I could rely on – unless I stayed up too late or I got sucked into a wallpaper tutorial. I called my favorite cycling coach and asked for a training plan of all indoor miles.

“No one likes riding inside for that many hours,” she said.

Normally, I’d agree. But this winter, I can think of nothing more pleasant than going nowhere on my stationary bike in the container of my garage and its mystery contents, where the only drops are sweat on the floor.

Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammim@spokesman.com.