It was a beautiful, bright and clear Boxing Day. The temperature hovered at a balmy 40°F. The wind blew with an almost playful temperateness. Now and again the sun even came out, casting its long, flickering rays over the sleepy valley. And the road - ah the road! Quiet and empty of cars, how endless it looked, how inviting and smooth. But alas, these favourable conditions were but a cruel illusion. My ride attempt came to naught, foiled by the winter cyclist's enemy number one: Black Ice.
Now, reader, please understand that I have cycled through four New England winters without incident. At this stage, I did not think I could be daunted by ice of any variety - be it black, white, purple, or any shade at all. But what I encountered here was a frozen-state phenomenon of its own class. So stealthy and perfectly invisible this substance was, that I can only attribute this to sheer malice on its part - malice toward cyclists.
Absent were the signs that I know to look for. Like the bits of lacy white edging in the texture of the pavement.
Or the tell-tale shimmer, when the sun's rays catch the road surface just so.
No, this brand of black ice had not the decency for any of it. It adhered to the contours of the chipseal in a matte, thin, perfectly transparent crust. It did not reveal itself in any visual manner what so ever, ensuring that its ice-rink quality slickness caught the traveler entirely by surprise.
Having discovered this treachery, I backtracked gingerly only to learn that even more of the road was covered with the stuff than I'd realised. What before had looked inviting now seemed hostile, even sinister - a formidable booby trap. A Boxing Day ride was not to be. But at least now I understand what I'm dealing with, and why the locals warn about it so zealously. Black ice is a force to be reckoned with, all the more so when its perfect stealth is matched by its perfect slickness. Even studded tires, I'm told, will not always help. This could be one long winter!
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