The change from winter to spring is always gradual, so it's not until that first day where the mercury hits 55, where I realize I have, in my current possession, not a single pair of shorts--a conundrum quickly rectified by borrowing a pair of scissors from my devoutly religious neighbor. Anyone with a bicycle quickly realizes the sub-45 degree temperature threshold has been broken, including the city's fair-weather commuting peloton; a tour-de-force of fingerless gloves and flabby spandex that transforms the city's bike lanes into a clumsy stream of Treks, Motobecanes, and Lamonds, freshly dusted off from a purgatorial winter spent hanging on a garage wall. Though I've already been riding all winter, and through some incredibly shitty (albeit subjective) weather, donning fresh cutoffs and a v-neck, and mashing on the pedals whilst giving the pasty-white skin its first chance to rejoice the triumphant return of Spring, is a euphoria experienced only once per year.
Spent some time at the temple yesterday, fountain-watching and Mormon-watching, and waiting for the radio to squawk out another pickup. Three weeks ago, I would have spent this standby time sucking down an expresso, and three months ago, holed up in my apartment, cursing the skies. The Mormons tell me this has been a mild winter, but they're also the ones with who built a massive concrete bunker network into my hill, and installed cellphone-jamming technologies on temple grounds, so I take their somewhat blasé meteorological conspiracy theories with a grain of salt.
Regardless, after a day of chasing traffic and racing the clock in some actual sunshine, it feels damn near perfect to lift open a window and catch a sunset in prime time.
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