My Life

by Tom Sommers | photo by Tom Sandner

Seasonal Cycles

For me, the pandemic winter was a life-changing gift.

I’M A SUMMER GUY, eager for heat and Birkenstocks, but last winter forever changed my perspective. I hopped on my bike, despite frigid temperatures, and had my best-ever cycling season.

Previously, I’d been a fair-weather, maybe-on-Sunday cyclist. The pandemic turned me into a full-bore fanatic. Winter streets and bikeways were vacant as I embarked on what would become an almost daily ritual, pedaling west from my home in D.C.’s Shaw neighborhood to Arlington and back. There were no tourist or commuter buses and nary an idling vehicle on the Teddy Roosevelt Bridge. Who could have predicted the opportunity for freewheeling down an empty K Street?

I soon found that biking was a balm for my pandemic angst and feelings of isolation. It was also a recipe for staving off the now infamous Covid-10 (pounds). My outings gave me a feeling of returning to normal—a sense that the world was still moving, even during lockdown.

As my body propelled my hybrid bike forward, my mind would grow more fluid, my intuition often nudging me toward a writing topic, a new work connection or an entrepreneurial idea to pursue. The sound of tire treads meeting asphalt signified progress—the antithesis of pandemic inertia.

Serenity and tranquility are words not typically associated with the D.C. area. This winter proved otherwise. Each time I pedaled toward the sunset, my worries melted away, along with the day’s stress. My bicycle became the ultimate freedom and exploration machine, edging me through cold, sun and rain as never before.

As Cherrydale cyclist Doug Berenson likes to say, quoting an oft-used Scandinavian expression, “There is no bad weather, only bad clothing.” I learned how to layer. Even in 30-degree temps I was good to go.

Evenings are my favorite time to ride, and the colder months presented a stark kind of beauty. Pedaling along the Potomac at dusk, I noted the sounds of migrating geese and the silhouettes of crews rowing toward Rosslyn. The sunsets were often stunning—oranges and pinks—perhaps made even more brilliant by the temporary hiatus from air pollution. On Jan. 19, I was unnerved to glimpse the shadows of armed guards walking the Lincoln Memorial’s attic rim.

I loved the unexpected solitude of a snowy Jan. 31 on the Mount Vernon Trail (MVT) near Theodore Roosevelt Island. The hushed quiet of the landscape felt like being inside a Norman Rockwell painting, the lights of Rosslyn’s skyscrapers casting a rosy glow on pillowy clouds.

Sometimes cycling becomes meditative and my mind tells stories. One evening, as I rode the MVT toward Gravelly Point, feeling like Snow White in the dark forest, I rolled out from underneath the 14th Street Bridge and wondered if the gnarly tree branches would snatch me. Fortunately, brightly lit fellow athletes shined ahead. I’ve become part of a twilight community of trail riders who customarily nod hello. We don’t know each other’s names, but the faces are familiar.

Arlington offers great vantage points by bike. At the Iwo Jima memorial I had a déjà-vu moment, taking in the same view of the National Mall that, for decades, I’d seen on the opening sequence of Face the Nation. Looking south from the Key Bridge, you can spot the control tower at National Airport and the slate-blue glass of the MGM National Harbor Casino.

The ride west on the Custis Trail from Rosslyn toward Courthouse is an uphill slog. I have been known to reward myself with a little treat for my efforts—a sub from Capriotti’s, a French patisserie from Eclairons, or a walnut brownie and a coffee from Tatte Bakery & Café in Dupont Circle (which is coming soon to Clarendon!).

Since January, I’ve logged more than 2,300 miles on my bike, and I’m not tired of it. The seasons, routes and neighborhoods continually offer new landscapes and new discoveries that keep me pedaling. Maybe it’s in my DNA. I recently turned 58. My dad, who is 93, and my mom, 85, collectively walked 40 miles this past March in cold Delaware, Ohio.

Right now it’s hard to beat the summertime weather. I’ve traded my layers and gloves for bike shorts, and have found plenty of tempting new food and drink stops along the water, between trailheads. But next winter, when the cold returns, I won’t hunker down inside. I’ll still be discovering all that the DMV has to offer on two wheels. ■

Tom Sommers is a D.C.-based writer and analyst, cyclist and LGBTQ and asylum-seeker advocate. @tomsommers1 on Twitter.