Strike

So Monday night Mate calls me at an ungodly hour to inform me that there will be a transit strike this week. Well, balls. Tuesday morning I dust off Tiffany and pull her outside. It's below freezing, and my hands shake as I clip on my helmet, but off I go to work. And sure enough, after a few blocks of cold air whipping onto my face, my body goes numb and my heart gets warm. I zip past the people waiting for the very rare buses and trams, fly up the river, dart across the bridge. Sure, I got to work, hopped off my bike, and barely caught myself on the fence before my legs gave out.

But God, I love my bike. Even if I now have a cold, which I am European enough to believe came from sweating so heavily in the cold!