Forty-one degrees at the bottom of the hill
The thermometer on the porch said 48°F when I rolled out at a quarter past seven. I trusted it, which was my first mistake of the season. The porch faces east and gets the sun early. The creek bottom two miles out does not.
By the time I coasted down the long hill to the bridge, my bike computer, which I mostly ignore, read 41°F. Fog was sitting low over the water and the fields on both sides were silver with dew. My fingers went from fine to wooden in about the time it takes to say so. I'd left the full gloves in the drawer because it was going to be a nice day. It was a nice day, from about ten o'clock on.
The loop
It's my usual autumn ride: 26 miles, mostly county blacktop, with a four-mile gravel stretch past the old orchard road. I ran the tires at 55 psi for the gravel, a bit softer than summer, and kept the chain in the middle of the cassette and mostly out of trouble. The maples along the gravel are just starting to turn, red only at the tips, as if someone had dipped them in paint and then lost interest.
The apple stand at the far end was open, honor box and all. I bought four apples and a jar of cider I had no good way to carry, and drank half of it on the bench so the jar would ride lighter. That seemed like sound engineering at the time.
What I'm putting back in the bag
- Full-finger gloves, from now until April, no arguing
- A thin cap that fits under the helmet
- The wind vest, which weighs less than an apple
- A rag for the chain, because wet leaves on gravel turn into paste
The ride home was warm, 58°F by the last climb, and I stuffed everything in my jersey pockets and felt slightly foolish. That's how it always goes. You dress for the bottom of the hill and you sweat at the top. I'll take that over wooden fingers.
Three hours and ten minutes, including the bench. Not a fast ride. Nobody asked it to be.