Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of death,
Into the mouth of hell…– Tennyson
The hills can daunt you, the heat can roast you, the rain can drown you. However, when you break it down, the most challenging element to pit itself against a cyclist is the wind. It’s the unseen enemy that can destroy all your good intentions and hard work. The wind can fool you, cradling you gently as it pushes you onward toward your destination. It can lull you into a false sense of bliss, where each pedal stroke takes no great effort and you feel as if you could glide for miles. You thank it, bless it and sings its praises. Then you have to get home. Gone is the soft hands at your back, instead you’ve got a thick syrup dragging at your legs, invisible mud sucks at your wheels, and freshly pumped slicks begin to feel like downhill rock-grabbers running at 30psi. Hell hath no fury like the wind.
A headwind can sap every ounce of energy you have, and there’s nothing so solid as a hill to blame. You don’t arrive home drenched in sweat or storm. You’re left heaving into it, gaining little and losing everything. Observers sit oblivious in their cars and cafes, wondering why you strain so hard to tackle a flat road, wondering why your eyes are watering and each revolution is the labour of a thousand years. They couldn’t understand unless they were right there alongside you.
But it’s not the predictable headwind that is the dangerous one. It’s the fiendish wind that really tests everything you’ve got. The wind that will not let you anticipate its movements, nor guess its intentions. The ever-changing blow that pits you against nature at its most tempestuous. It leads a charge against your front, stopping you in your tracks and barring your way. You strain forward to push beyond it, only to find yourself thrown sideways as the blast turns against your flank. Suddenly every inch of handling skill you have is put to the test as your thrown sideways into whatever steel-driven death or bottomless grate awaits you. Any compensation you make is quickly counteracted as the gust once again changes. A momentary pause fools you into serenity, only to tear you violently awake again as you’re thrown in two directions at once. The intersection that normally sends only cars against you now become a raging cross-blast, throwing you into oncoming traffic with no warning and less care. Wave after wave of dust and debris batter your face and fill your eyes, grit and grime working its way into your mouth with every ragged breath.
Finally you make it to the front door. The letterbox lies tumbled across the front yard, torn from the fence by an unseen hand. The door slams shut and abandons you, stumbling amongst the blown leaves and street litter in the hallway. All that’s left to show for the battle are reddened eyes, a burning throat and the battered breath that gasps from it.