About a month after I got my license I cajoled my then brand-new-boyfriend to take a ride into the Adirondacks to hike a mountain. He wasn’t a climber but he acquiesced, as brand-new-boyfriends tend to do. The day was supposed to be quite hot for September, better to get an early start. As we rode into the mountains, the temps were high 40’s at best. By the time we reached Saranac Lake (an hour’s ride) my hands were about frozen to my handlebars. During a stop at the Blue Moon Cafe for coffee and bagels, I talked with a fully outfitted Canadian who was touring for the weekend on her blown out sport bike. She laughed jauntily when I mentioned the temperature and made reference to her heated jacket and handlebars. And there I was in a old winter coat because I didn’t yet have a leather jacket. Feeling like an absolute novice, we headed to the mountain and had a glorious hike. Although I doubt my boyfriend would describe it in those terms. The temperature rose quickly, and he said, months later, that he was “dying” on the way up. I never see many bikes parked at trailheads in the Adirondacks. Perhaps changing out of filthy hiking clothes into riding gear on the side of the road isn’t that appealing. But that day, on the ride home, I needed nothing more than my tank top and jeans. And those in-between moments when I wasn’t worried about shifting were all about the cooling wind on my face and a triumphant feeling. I was barely competent, but I was getting there.