I’ve just come in from a hike realizing the closest I can get to a ride right now is in my dreams. And it is here, in the magically warm land of lap blankets and lapsang souchong that I lay out my dreams for riding in the coming year. I am making plans along the eastern seaboard from Montreal to Manhattan and start my European sojourn with a long weekend in Iceland and a longer shot at an open road. I want to ride there, for a bit, and battle the epic Atlantic wind. I want to soak and swim with snow falling and geothermal springs settling into my bones. I want to wait for Northern Lights and see them dance across the windows, surrounded by silence. I want to listen to the sagas of Iceland on two wheels.
From my couch, comfortably tucked into my cocoon of cashmere, I toy with the idea of putting together a ride in Scotland, touring the distilleries of Islay. With cold, salted ocean spray on my face, knotted hair, and a belly warmed with peat-smoked amber liquid. I imagine the winter dreams of these islands, earthen and friendly and timeless. I imagine the depth of difference in the bottom of the glass and the beauty of taking the one road, the road less traveled, in search of scotch and scenery.
With a black blanket of darkness settling outside and dinner in the oven, I dream of Copenhagen and the opportunity to ride in a land saturated with a rich and fluent and seamless culture of cycling. And in between these possibilities of foreign travel, I dream of filling my time with the sun on my arms, lost in the familiar fields and forests of my normal rides. I dream of the road, open once again to my two wheels, and the turns I will take in the coming year. But for now, with dinner nearly done, I’ll content myself to be warm and wild in the dreams of my wanderings and look forward to sharing the culture of two wheel travel and the opportunities to ride along.