“How cold is it?” a kid asked his riding buddy, a thermometer the size of an oversized lollipop pinned to the back of his schoolbag, “Forty.” “What?? It’s colder than that!” “Dude, it says forty. Course, it said forty in the valley, too. It’s been saying forty all day long.” Another voice chimed in, commenting in cold irony, “I think your thermometer's frozen.” It was definitely colder than forty degrees fahrenheit. I had left my bike computer with thermometer at home on my touring bike, but having grown up in Northern Vermont, I could safely say that it was not only cold, but wicked cold by the time that we hit the ridgeline and the wind hit us. And wicked cold is a lot closer to Zero than it is forty. I had been itching to
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