Chasing Snow
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The homemade biscotti had finished it's first bake and had about a hour to cool on the counter before being sent back into a 275° oven for its second bake. The kitchen was warm, the house was warm, and everything was encouraging me to stay inside because the temp outside, by contrast, was not warm at all. Certainly not cycling warm at an overcast chilly 42° (5.5°C).
So one could reasonably ask why I was shrugging on my ski jacket, Thinsulate gloves, and neck warmer, then opening up the ride app on my phone before kicking up the kick stand and rolling my Vado outside of the garage into the cold. It actually had to do with a ping on my phone from a weather app announcing the imminent arrival (threat?) of a "wintery mix" of snow just as I had pulled the once baked biscotti from the oven. I glanced outside at the mountains to notice...I couldn't see those peaks just to the south due to the impenetrable veil of... you guessed it ...falling snow. Just a few miles away. Close enough to ride my bike into if I was quick enough. Well within the hour for the biscotti to cool. Just a bit of fun if I ignored the cold to run and play in the falling flakes. And also if I ignored the fact that several of the biscotti pieces would be mysteriously missing by the time I returned, sure to find hubby's guilty fingers pointing with fake outrage to the completely innocent dogs as the culprits in the tasty theft. He knows I'm wise to him. Don't know why he bothers to try. Must be a guy thing.
I actually only dressed for about 4 miles of chasing snow. What I failed to do was to also check the radar to see which way the snow was headed. I simply assumed it was headed at me as I hit the gravel road headed west, fully expecting to be immediately enveloped in a delightful dense snowburst.
What did happen was instead of chasing snow I ended up chasing a mirage. You know, those imaginary images that keep receding further and further away even as you attempt to close the distance. I reached the point 2 miles away where the snow had been falling, only to find it had been retreating away from me the whole time and was now a further 2 miles distant.
Not being of a mind to give up a challenge, and with hands and feet and all important body parts still comfortably warm, plus only a few minutes into the allowed hour, I set to the chase again, heading down the gravel roads towards the mountains in the direction of an old settlement known as Trapp. (Or The Trappe. Or Trap. The place had quite a few variations on spelling, all of which were apparently deemed acceptable over the past few centuries.) And I probably would have succeeded in catching the squall had I not stopped to talk to a landowner who, with one of his farm help, had been out in the brief snow storm (when it passed over Trapp/The Trappe/Trap) encouraging an escaped cow and her calf back into their pasture from their wayward misadventures on the front lawns of a neighboring property. The two men were standing at the side of the road, the pasture gate in front of them wide open with the cow and calf now securely back in the field and strolling back towards the distant herd. I knew the landowner had lived in the area since he was a boy and so asked him about the derelict building just a few yards away.
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I had assumed it was an old gas station, considering the old truck parked nearby that hadn't moved from its spot for the last 14 years - based on the license plate's 2007 registration sticker - but he said no, the building had been a store, in business long before World War 2, but had been abandoned at least a decade before. I was later to find out the building had been constructed in 1876 and had been the favorite hangout for the local mountain men to swap stories of boar and bear hunting and all sorts of misadventures that only mountain folk are privy to. The store lasted until 1907 when the mail stopped coming to the town, the government deeming it more efficient and less costly to consolidate the mail with a bigger local town instead. Losing their mail privileges were usually the death knell for these little backwater communities, and Trapp/The Trappe/Trap was no exception. All that remained now of the thriving village of 33 inhabitants was 3 houses, of which one was delerict, and this old empty building. The blacksmith shop, and the school, were both long gone.
The landowner and I chatted for a few minutes before he said, with a knowing smile "Does that bike have a motor?" I smiled back and assured him that it did, and asked if he knew how fast it would assist me. He didn't. "28 miles an hour" I informed him with a grin. He raised his eyebrows. "Even going up hills?" he asked, incredulous. "Gallops up them like a race horse," I replied. "Kind of embarrassing, though, passing others struggling and gasping for breath on plain bikes", I admitted. "I find myself saying Sorry, Sorry, Sorry to everyone I pass." He laughed, but then his farm help interrupted saying he was going to check a fenceline to see that it was secure, which was my clue to say thanks and wave goodbye and take off down the road.
To my dismay the snow had taken advantage of my stop to retreat further south. For all intents and purposes it had strayed beyond the limits of where I wanted to chase it by the time I reached the end of the gravel road. I could still see the snow falling from the clouds, but when I stopped and pulled up the radar on my phone I saw with a sinking heart that the storm had put at least 4 more miles between itself and me. So close, but too far. I would have to ride into the next county which was something I wasn't prepared to do.
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It was time to head back home. Well, sorta in a round about way. You see, my hands and feet and all important body parts were still toasty warm, and the radar was promising that a few pop-up snow showers just might intersect with my ride if I chose to go a bit further east. And I still had time left in the allotted hour. Plus the roads were completely empty except for my presence. I had them all to myself. How could I resist?
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Sailing along at a good clip I was treated to several views of the snow gracing someone else's landscape. And each advance snow event promised by the radar just seemed to skirt where I was at the moment, teasing me into going farther and further.
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I was enjoying the chase a bit too much before I realized my hour was up. It was also at that point where I realized my fingers were a bit chilled, no doubt by the fact that I kept taking my gloves off to take pictures and also, lacking touch pads on the glove fingers, taking them off frequently to select the songs I was listening to on my phone while I rode. Yeah, and my toes were starting to feel a touch cold as well. That, too.
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It was time to yield the chase to the departing clouds and head up the gravel roads towards the clearer skies and home. Next time I'll check the radar before waltzing off on my bike in pursuit of some snow to play in. Or maybe I'll just wing it again. In the meantime I'll stick an extra pair of gloves in my panniers, just in case. Extra socks, too.
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Oh, yeah - there were a few pieces of the biscotti missing, too. The blame was placed on the dogs, of course, which failed to sway both judge and jury. The remaining biscotti got its second baking and turned out both perfect and delicious. My toes and fingers warmed up instantly, and as I looked outside the kitchen window an hour later I saw a few white flakes fall gently just outside the window pane onto the lawn. Just a few. Just a tease for next time.