by Brad the Bike Messenger

Ugh… another January and the city’s getting kind of nasty. Streets and sidewalks are rimmed with the remains of three inches that fell weeks ago, though now the snow is mottled by salt, brake dust, and exhaust fumes. When making deliveries it’s nearly impossible not to track slushy, gravel-laden effluvium across floors, and I worry what all these grocery managers and bulk buyers must think of this kid and his drippings. "I’ll bet he left the back door wide open too," they’d wonder as I hand them their bill.

Winter is the season of quiet hostility. A dispirited time when subtle inflections in verbal exchange leave us fallible, prone, nursing new, complex emotions. Oh sure it’s not like this for every one. Some remember the winter for its biting cold where I associate winter with opposition and vulnerability. Psychology aside, I was ready for a day off.

Last week I used my Glorified Sick Day (G.S.D.), or as it is known to Zen poets, the Floating Holiday. I would use this day to avoid people, to explore, and maybe reconnect with winter’s placid neutrality. I dug out my studded ice tires and installed platform pedals to accommodate the wintry boots I intended to wear. I layered sweaters and filled my stomach with oatmeal.

It occurred to me only recently that ice could be ridden upon, which meant for a long time that I’ve almost wholly denied the existence of Minnesota’s most abundant winter recreation venues. The ice on Lake Harriet still made me nervous initially. I grabbed a big rock from near shore and threw it as high as I could to hear it return to the ice with a dull thud, bouncing, but not able even to chip the surface. Assured, I took off across the lake, the low-angle noon sun shining into my face. Wind-powered ice sleds whizzed by, seemingly without friction.

The flat tarmac of the lake held little in the way of new wonders. Only its surface was remarkable in that it was so featureless. I veered for Minnehaha Creek, into the trees. Here the ice required a bit more attention as it was thin in places, or frozen into an exposed lattice that would crumble with any weight on it. I was more tentative getting onto the creek and continuing on the creek.

In most parts the ice was a glass-like sheen, where only the small carbide bits in my tires were keeping me upright. The streambed led me through parks and under bridges: past the affluent, landscaped backyards of Edina.

I didn’t now how far the creek went, though it seemed to be my responsibility to find to source. I rode on, moving easily enough, but getting cold and worried about sunlight. Coming round another bend in the ice, I startled a pair of Mallards, who in turn scared the crap out of me as they took to the air. They glided into a bobbing crowd of fellow ducks who occupied an exposed section of current. It was useless to go further, as in doing so I have to pass them. I turned around, following the creek downhill.

I looked at a map once I got home. The creek goes out to Lake Minnetonka, still some ten miles from where I had turned around. I pulled a blanket off my bed, stretched out on the couch, and read and drank tea until I dozed off. Ahh, January.

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