Make February go faster by getting out this weekend
Coast
February: on paper the shortest month, in your mind, the longest. Forced to bridge the gap between dread, post-holiday, dreary cold January and the start of spring in March, February can seem interminable. The best way to escape the February doldrums? Jump into an icy cold Atlantic Ocean.
On Memorial Day, I was on a two-hour ride into the Wake County countryside. At the light on Green Hope High School Road and NC 55, a retro-ish looking Trek tandem pulled up next to me, dad in the pilot’s seat, son behind him in the stoker’s seat. “My son’s autistic,” the dad began. “This is a great way for us to get out and explore together.” Their rides, he said, were generally in the 20- to 25-mile range and inevitably wound up at McDonald’s. The two couldn’t have looked more content.
So, what did you do first thing this Sunday morning? Have a cup of coffee? A bagel? Read the Sunday paper in your bathrobe and slippers?
Me? I dove into 15,000 gallons of ice water.
Technically, “ice water” may be pushing it. According to the duck, it was 65 degrees. To put that number in perspective, jump into the ocean during your summer beach vacation, then subtract 20 degrees. It’s a big difference, trust me.
Marcy chuckled at her computer screen. The wife was scouting upcoming runs, triathlons, bike rides — anything that might provide a carrot for getting out and training. “The Grueling Triathlon of Doom,” she said, letting me in on the joke.
Grueling Triathlon of Doom? Such truth in advertising, I thought. Triathletes are well-conditioned not to view what they do as “grueling,” nor to entertain notions of “doom.” My mind raced; shortly, my fingers followed, on my own keyboard to see what this Grueling Triathlon of Doom was all about.
Jill Malley knows more about competition than she thinks. “You’re doing great,” she said over my shoulder as I pedaled hamsterlike on the stationary bike. Then, leaning in, she added confidentially, “You’ve gone farther than anyone I’ve seen so far.” Nothing like a well-timed stroke to keep a guy from dialing back the stationary bike just when he thinks he’s had all he can take of going nowhere fast.