It never fails: I take my first bike ride in March and I freeze my tush off. I KNOW it’s March, I KNOW March is windy, I KNOW March is cold. But March is also sunny, and if the forsythia blooms don’t convince me, the delicate white blossoms on my apricot tree do. So, zombie-like, I remove my bike from
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its winter storage shed, I knock off the cobwebs, and … where’d that wind come from?