I’ve seen fifty-five below in Minnesota winters, but I’ve never been as cold as I was that day riding north from El Paso. Spiderwebs of pain crawling through my thighs, trash bag under a sweatshirt, stopping every thirty minutes just to warm up — cold on cold on cold. And when I finally thawed out? I still got back on the bike that night. Because the cold doesn’t change the truth. I ride. That’s who I am. That’s what I do.