The Art of Being Cold

I am so bloody cold.

I’m so cold, in fact, that I cannot remember the last time I felt warm. Last week? Ten days ago? A month? When was I last warm enough that being cold didn’t even cross my mind?

I have no idea.

There are no other thoughts in my head, bar how cold I am. Everything is centered around being cold. I can’t even think of another word for cold. Cold, cold, cold.

And wet.

Two awful things. Cold and wet.

I don’t know when I will next be warm. Or dry. I can foresee being cold (and wet) for a long, long time – for hours, for days, maybe. I might be able to get slightly less cold, before being hurtled into yet another period of coldness.

I’m outside, you see, and there is very little prospect of being inside for a while.

When one thinks of the desert, one thinks of sand, camels, tropical oasis’ shimmering on the horizon. Yellow, gold, blue, green.

Heat. Sun. No clouds in the sky.

Today, at least, this desert is grey.  And cold. So cold. So very cold.

The snow continues, intermittently. It’s not even proper snow – that I might be able to forgive.

I cannot stop focusing on how I feel, as there is so little on the landscape to distract me. The occasional bare shrub, a partially collapsed wall – grey lumps that could be interesting from a distance but turn out to be nothing worth my attention when I reach them. I’m not wearing my glasses, as per, so everything is a little blurry anyway.

There is a whole lot of nothingness.

No trees. No animals. No people.

I guess most deserts are like that really. I hadn’t thought about what a desert might be like when it was cold. I don’t think it had even occurred to me to think that a desert could be cold (although you hear that the temperature drops after dark). It’s only pretending to be dark now, this isn’t real dark.

This is grey. Boring, boring, grey.

God, I’m bored as well as cold. This is not good.

I have to keep myself motivated, to get through the next few hours.

What can I think about?

(I’m cold.)

No! Something else.

I stop for the shortest possible amount of time to insert headphones and choose a podcast. I don’t like to listen and cycle at the same time, but we literally (literally!) have not seen another live being for hours, let alone a car.

No one else is stupid enough to be out on this road in the middle of a cold, snowy day.
Certainly, no one else is stupid enough to think they can cycle across a desert in the snow. It is late November, after all.

Maybe we’re not stupid as much as game-for-anything. No worries, mate and all that jazz.

He is, at least. I am not.

I’m so cold now, I think I’ll upgrade ‘cold’ to ‘f&*king freezing’ (sorry, Mum). My hands are struggling to grip my handlebars. My knees ache with cold-related pain as they slowly spin the pedals. I stopped feeling my toes about three hours ago.

Oh god, my toes.

Public Toliet

Are they okay? Have I got frostbite? They’ve stopped aching now. I remember reading somewhere that once your fingers, or toes, or any extremity, stopped aching then you could be susceptible to frostbite.

Bugger, I don’t want to stop to check if I have frostbite. I’m far, far too cold.
Distractions. What can I distract myself with? Listening – podcast – laughter. A voice other than the one(s) in my head.

There’s nothing to see, to hear, to smell. Only COLD. And hours ahead. Hours of cold cycling, across a desolate landscape, with only the prospect of huddling in a semi-wet tent and a packet of dried noodles to look forward to.

Happy f%^king birthday to me.