Sprung

Darcy on Janice's Jive, 3.20.11

My candle burns at both ends
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends,
It gives a lovely light.

—Edna St. Vincent Millay,

"A Few Figs from Thistles"

People have many ways of determining the beginning of spring. Some people use the official date on the calendar but many of us—especially this far north, where weather often fails to match the "official" season—use personal and eccentric milestones. For those who hate winter, spring arrives when the last snow melts.

I usually call it spring when the Iditarod ends, because that's when the daytime weather is often in the balmy 40s, and the sun is high enough to eliminate the long shadows we've lived with for months. But the real proof of spring, for me, always seems to come at the end of a sunny day. The kind of day that begins with a plan to spend a couple of hours riding before taking on the daunting list of shit that gots to get done ... but really ends after a longer ride, a beer or two, a late dinner and then a flurry of vacuuming, laundry, and hours on the laptop catching up on more shit that gots to get done. (Like blogging at 11 p.m. instead of going to bed, for example .)

Until we start to get a little taste of sunlight-related sleep deprivation, it's still winter. But then we finally crest that hill and begin rolling toward summer, the season marked by rides that keep us out until midnight and make us cringe because we'll be lucky to get five hours of sleep before going to work in the morning.

Spring is finally knocking at the door.

I can feel it now.