When I engage the front door’s dead bolt, or remotely secure my car doors, I do it by habit, without much thought. Not so with my bicycle: I need to remember the lock, bear the burden of its weight (a function of its invulnerability, increasing with a cycle’s worth and the crime rate around it), then find an immovable object to which my bike can unbreakably bond. As I uncoil the cable then shut tight the shackle, I’m fighting the forces of another’s temptation—and when walking away, I look back to see things as they might, betting that theft appears more trouble than it’s worth. How lighter life would be if everyone were able to buy the bicycle of their dreams.

Take a hoola hoop, stand it on its edge, and give it a spin. As its axis precesses, each spot on the rim goes round and round and up and down, like a child galloping on a merry-go-round.

While we normally think of the seasons as cycling like a wheel, the year of a cyclist is like that point on the hoop, as the highs of summer rides descend into the lows of a winter spent off the saddle.

Now we’re at that point where the ring makes contact and rebounds again. For the first time since early fall we are looking up at the coming season instead of riding head down into a bitter wind. And bracing against a cool April shower we’re reminded that better cycling lies ahead.