February has a way of making you believe things.

It gives you a blue sky, a crisp morning, and a forecast that says snow isn’t expected for a few hours. A few hours feels responsible. Manageable. Practically generous.

And that’s how my adventure started.

I decided it was the perfect day for a ride.

So I rolled Peggy Sue – my faithful e-trike – out of the garage.

Yes, an e-trike. Three wheels. Electric assist. A basket. Stability with personality.

But buying Peggy Sue was not part of my original plan.

Originally, I intended to buy a regular two-wheeled e-bike – perhaps even the same model my husband, Marty, rides with confidence. I did my research responsibly. I compared battery life. I watched review videos narrated by men named Chad who take hills personally. I imagined myself sleek and streamlined, leaning forward with purpose, wind cooperating.

Then an ad interrupted my plans.

It featured a group of impossibly fit, twenty-something men and women riding e-trikes through terrain that looked aggressively unwelcoming. They powered up steep backcountry hills, tore through mud and snow, and descended rocky paths with cinematic ease. There were jawlines. There were quadriceps. There was hair moving in slow motion.

And they were all on three wheels.

I stared at the screen, impressed.

In the ad, the trike wasn’t a compromise. It was a weapon. A tactical choice for athletes. A machine for conquering terrain while looking casually invincible.

For a brief, delusional moment, I imagined myself among them – cresting hills at golden hour, nodding knowingly at fellow adventurers, my blonde hair escaping just enough from beneath my helmet to suggest freedom but not chaos.

Then I looked down at my own knees.

As much as I admire the look of a traditional two-wheeled e-bike, the e-trike offered something far more appealing at this stage of life: stability.

Where I live in Northern Kentucky, the hills are not decorative. They rise and fall sharply and unapologetically. They could qualify as Olympic events. They do not reward overconfidence or aging bones.

And here’s the truth. I have had two friends fracture arms and hips falling off their e-bikes, and I care significantly more about not breaking bones than I do about looking cool.

Three wheels suddenly felt less like regression and more like wisdom.

If gravity is going to make an appearance – and it always does – I would prefer to meet it on stable terms.

After my first ride, I was hooked.

Peggy Sue climbs our ridiculous hills with steady determination. The motor hums reassuringly – not flashy, not dramatic – just competent. I still pedal. I still work. My thighs still burn. I earn the climb. But I use the power assist mostly when the hills cross from “invigorating” to “hell no.”

Otherwise, I let her help just enough to smooth the incline while I take a brief rest.

With one exception.

Last fall, a very determined standard poodle – with a bad attitude and an impressive display of teeth – broke free from his yard and decided I was his new life purpose. He chased me for a full block with astonishing speed and admirable focus. I had always thought of poodles as friendly, family pets. I was wrong.

But that day, I discovered both the upper range of Peggy Sue’s power assist and the lower range of my unconditional love for all animals.

We accelerated.

A lot.

For a few glorious seconds, I was Tom Cruise on a motorcycle, evading a Russian crime syndicate in the chaotic streets of Lisbon – wind in my face, danger behind me, cinematic confidence fully intact.

Then reality returned.

Peggy Sue carried me safely out of reach, leaving my four-legged aggressor looking humiliated and panting beside a fire hydrant.

And I have never since underestimated poodles, Tom Cruise, or adjustable power settings.

Which brings us back to that February morning.

Peggy Sue and I headed out confidently. The roads were dry. The hills looked negotiable. I passed a few other riders on two wheels – serious cyclists in fitted gear. Their nods communicated solidarity. Mine said, “Yes, that is a basket.”

For the first stretch, everything felt fine.

Then the wind picked up.

Not dramatically. Just enough to notice. The sky lost some of its color. A few clouds rolled in.

I kept riding.

The wind strengthened. It began pushing instead of nudging. I noticed there were no longer people walking. No more cyclists. The sidewalks emptied.

Then came the temperature drop and the flurries.

At first, just a few flakes came drifting down, but within minutes, they turned horizontal. Five minutes later, snow was falling in large, heavy flakes mixed at times with sleet. It stuck to the roads. It stuck to Peggy Sue. It stuck to my helmet and my coat. It stuck to my sunglasses.

Somewhere during all this, my phone – safely tucked away in a water-proof bag inside the basket – began blowing up with concerned calls from Marty. Apparently, the same weather system I had confidently ignored had not gone unnoticed by him.

Are you okay?
Do you need to be rescued?

At that moment, rescue felt slightly dramatic. I only had a ten-minute ride ahead until I was home.

So I kept pedaling.

Meanwhile, the elastic holding my ponytail under my helmet gave way. My hair broke free and began whipping wildly in the wind. Between the sideways snow and the full rebellion of my hair, I resembled Almira Gulch from The Wizard of Oz – determined, pedaling madly, no doubt looking slightly unhinged, and climbing into weather I had no business negotiating.

The few cars still on the road passed with amused glances that clearly said, “WTF were you thinking?”

The streets – and those famous Northern Kentucky hills – were now coated in a thin, slippery layer of snow and ice.

But Peggy Sue never hesitated.

She didn’t wobble. She didn’t lose traction.  Her three wheels stayed planted, and her motor hummed steadily as we climbed. While I questioned my poor decisions, she remained entirely unbothered.

By the time I made it home, my coat, gloves, glasses, and helmet were covered in frozen rain. My cheeks were windburned. My hair resembled Medusa.

But Peggy Sue looked ready for another lap.

February is unpredictable. Forecasts can be optimistic. Hills are often steep.

But three wheels are steady.

And if you’re going to misjudge the weather, it helps to have a faithful machine – and a husband – prepared to come looking for you.

I still believe the sun.

I just check the radar twice now.