But then you ride.
And somewhere around kilometre four, it hits you:
You cannot feel your hands.
Your fingers are staging a silent protest.
And your gloves are lying to your face.
This is your guide to pretending everything’s fine while your digits slowly disappear into the void.
Stage one: Glove optimism
It starts with hope.
You pick the “mid-weight” pair, the ones with some insulation but not too much, because you’re not a coward.
You tell yourself:
– “They worked last year.”
– “I’ll warm up once I’m riding.”
– “They’re windproof… probably.”
You slip them on. They feel okay. You wiggle your fingers. Confidence builds.
You are wrong.
Stage two: The cold creeps in
It’s always the same two fingers. Usually the ring and pinky, the drama queens of the hand family.
They go first. Quietly.
Then the index finger starts to ache.
You pretend not to notice.
Your brain says: We’ll be fine!
Your hand says: We’ve made a terrible mistake.
You try to wriggle some heat back into them.
You look like a raccoon attempting jazz hands.
Stage three: Alternative coping methods
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
– Tucking your hands under your armpits at red lights
– Flapping them around mid-ride like you’re trying to summon a pigeon
– Breathing hot air into your gloves and immediately regretting the dampness
– Pretending shifting isn’t that important anyway
– Holding your bars with two fingers and blind faith
You develop entire coping narratives:
– “The nerves are just resting.”
– “Frostbite builds character.”
– “Real cyclists don’t feel pain. Or fingers.”
You consider buying new gloves.
But which kind? There are fifteen types.
You panic and do nothing.
Stage four: Social shame
You meet the group at the café stop.
One guy has ski gloves. One has lobster claws. One has battery-heated mitts that cost more than your car.
You ask, “How are your hands?”
They say, “Toasty!”
You smile.
You cry inside.
You use both hands to lift your coffee because your left one has entered hibernation mode.
Stage five: Emotional frostbite
You no longer feel the bars.
You’ve dropped a gel three times and didn’t notice.
You went to ring your bell and poked yourself in the face instead.
You wonder: Will I ever feel again?
Not just physically, but emotionally?
You consider naming your fingers, just so you can say goodbye properly.
Index, Middle, Alan, Greg… Godspeed.
You make it home.
You stand in your kitchen.
You take off your gloves and stare at your pale, shrivelled claws.
The thaw begins. It is excruciating.
You scream silently.
You question everything.
And then, as the blood returns, you say the most cursed sentence in cycling:
“I think they were fine, actually.”
