We had a landmark event this morning: my five year old rode his own bike into school. Up until now, he’s been riding on the back of the tandem bike with my wife.

This morning, he and I set out about fifteen minutes earlier than usual, riding into a thick cold mist. The television said it was 60 degrees out, but it felt more like 50.

“Are you sure you don’t want a jacket?” I asked.

The little guy only had a t-shirt on. I’d convinced him to stuff his jacket in his backpack, but he didn’t want to wear it.

“No,” he said. “I love the coldness.”

We rode out of the neighborhood and on to the trail. The mist veiled the sun and quieted the typical morning sounds of suburbia awakening. The trees loomed on either side of us, the birds and squirrels huddling on the branches to stay warm.

The little guy couldn’t have been happier. He maintained a constant stream of consciousness, happily babbling about whatever came into his head. We shouted echoes as we pedalled under the highway, and counted the number of people walking dogs.

“I love the coldness,” he said.

“I know.”

“You know why God puts coldness on the earth?” he asked.

“Um, no.” I said.

“I mean you know why He doesn’t have it cold all the time?” he asked.

“You tell me,” I said.

“Because he wants us to earn it.”

“Ah,” I said. “You think so?”

“Yes.”

Fair enough.