Thirty-seven degrees this morning. Snow on Pikes Peak. Wearing pants — in the house! I can feel my tan lines fading already.

Now commences the annual ritual of hunting down winter cycling kit. Long-fingered gloves, tuque, long-sleeved jerseys, arm, knee and leg warmers, tights, jacket, all that good shit. It’s around here somewhere, but I’ve been trying mighty hard not to think of it, reasoning that to imagine winter is to bring it on.

Today’s high is expected to reach only the 50s, and the NWS expects rain and snow tonight. Down with the pergola cover, out with the snow shovel, unplug and coil the garden hoses. Good thing I whipped up a big pot of vegetable beef soup last night. There’s a chuck roast in the ’fridge, free-range pork in the freezer and bottles of warming red wine nestled in the rack.

The U.S. Gran Prix of Cyclocross is coming to Fort Collins, but I won’t be there. I’ll be right here, chained to the desk, pushing pixels for The Man. At least I’ll be warm, well fed and wined to the eyeballs.