Midstokke: Just because you can doesn’t mean you should

I don’t know what it is about mountain towns or the Northwest in general that has the population always running high on stoke and misled optimism about weather. The skiers are up there shredding soggy miles, and should they glimpse a reminder of the sun, bragging about it. Down here in the lowlands, the mountain bikers are talking about great trail conditions and tuning their bikes.

Meanwhile, I’ve been looking forward to “shoulder season” as an excuse to catch up on some reading and test some cookie recipes, neither of which appear socially acceptable in these parts. I have been feigning fitness by riding my bike on a stationary trainer and publicly lamenting how bored my cross-country skis are. So you can imagine how distraught I was when my teammate suggested we bond on the trail this week. As in … outside on the mountain bike trails.

Months ago, when the weather was nice and I was hopped up on caffeine and energy chews or maybe a postride cocktail, I had suggested we team up on the 24 Hours of Riverside in May. He teaches elementary school, so I should have known he is tougher than I.

He used words like “crush” and “shred,” so I knew he was serious. I prayed for snowfall, but my single wish wasn’t enough to tip the scales of the gods. To not risk being perceived as wimpy or a poor teammate, I committed to a traditional mountain bike ride. (As opposed to the ones I imagine while spinning in the comfort of my heated garage, cup of coffee perched to my right, Lizzo teaching me new words in my headphones.)

Not often in a sour mood, I was impressed by the stamina of my scowl for the subsequent two hours. There is still snow out there because it is February – the longest shortest month, which I am sure is in its 47th week by now. Never in the history of Februaries in Idaho was it a good idea to pretend mountain biking was a good idea.

I’m not averse to outdoorsing all year round. I’ll run into the single digits and snowshoe beyond that. Sledding and cross-country skiing are bred into my Norse DNA. But cycling is the menopause equivalent of winter sports: You’re either freezing or sweating, the carb cravings are legitimate, and your pants feel inexplicably tight.

There are snowy run-off rivers and patches of ice and entire canyons where the shade and swaths of white are clear indicators that, whether Punxsutawney Phil saw a shadow or not, it’s still the middle of winter. Also, I have a hard enough time steering my bike in favorable conditions. I don’t need the added challenge of teeth-clacking chills and rigor mortis joints.

The men appeared to be oblivious if not welcoming of the conditions. Trailing behind them so they could not hear my alternate whimpering and cursing, I only occasionally overheard them chatting away as if things were fun and normal and they were toasty in their single dense layers of fleece. Meanwhile, I was packed in so many layers, I looked like a Charmin commercial under a Barbie spell.

I peeled off to ride home – citing darkness or coldness or the fact that ridable temperatures are still two months away – and tried to find a pace that found equilibrium between keeping my circulation up and keeping the windchill down. Grimacing into the gray gust, my frowning eyebrows distorting my vision, someone pulled up next to me on a mountain bike, grinning from ear to ear.

He showed me his neoprene booties and exclaimed how cozy he was. I did not want to diminish his joy by exclaiming how silly he looked, in particular because my own fashion statement of arctic-expedition-gear-meets-Jane-Fonda-workout was not a place to judge from. Also, I hadn’t felt my toes in a good 90 minutes or so.

Oh, but the mountain bikers are thrilled at the climate change murder of shoulder season, aren’t they? I thought to myself, righteous at the bad karma he probably induced by wearing neoprene and claiming to enjoy moderate winters.

Once home, my family had to bear witness to the dramatic thawing of my phalanges, which is perhaps the most embarrassing injury one can acquire. There’s not even any blood. My subsequent display of self-acquired misery in no way represented the benign nature of my frostbite. While in the throws of Lamaze breathing techniques and toe wiggling, I determined to further my commitment to social awareness of the climate crisis by only performing seasonally appropriate sports.

And in February in Idaho, that means perusing the seed catalogue.

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