It occurred to me—as I rode my bike home last night after school via Uptown because I was meeting a friend there, which meant I rode approx. 3.5 mi west on Franklin, into a westerly 18 mph wind (which meant that if I slowed to 17 mph I would be going -1 mph, or backwards, because I’m pretty sure that’s how science works) in the dark, having taken all manner of safety-dork measures (included but not limited to flashing front and rear LEDs; reflective velcro straps around the jeans of my legs; brand-new and very expensive gloves; a balaclava [or "ninja mask" or "terrorist costume"] that kept my head and face warm even as it made breathing considerably more difficult; and of course the helmet) with scant flurries beginning to appear, and my tires kicking up salt from the road, and my legs burning but probably in the best shape they’ve been since HS swim team, and rush-hour traffic skittering around me—not so much that I’d undertaken this endeavor because I was either a little bit crazy or a little bit badass or a little bit both (though I was having those thoughts, inasmuch as my balaclava-impaired breathing allowed my brain the oxygen to allow them), but rather that I had plenty of company out there, in the form of other reflective-vest-wearing joggers and balaclavaed bicyclists, so that by the time I was riding home through downtown on Hennepin I was getting that stoic solidarity-nod from other crazy/badass cyclists, to the point where I realized that, for better or worse, certain prevailing truths behind certain old chestnuts about the Scandanavian stoicism and/or masochistic foolhardiness of the Upper Midwest’s inhabitants do obtain.