Note: This is the first of a series of articles on the theme of reinvention, which is one of my favorite topics. So, stay tuned for more lessons soon…

It was snowing sideways outside and I was inside the packed grocery store in Dillon, Colorado picking out popsicles when I heard the couple next to me talking amongst themselves. Each word dripped with a thick Southern drawl.

“Did you see that person at the stoplight on their bicycle?” The woman said, reaching for the mint popsicles I’d been ogling. The last box. Damnit.

The man shook his head. “These Colorado people are crazy!”

I laughed out loud, and they both glanced at me. Little did they know that the crazy person on the bike was me. Each winter, I outfitted my trusty steed with studded winter bike tires crafted in Finland. When it snowed cats and dogs–like it was at the moment–I donned my ski helmet and ski goggles before hitting the icy, slushy and snowy roads.

The locals had gotten used to me, and they would often let me pass first or call out “Hey Sylva, where you headed?” The hordes of visitors, however, were not at all prepared to see someone speeding through the intersection on a bike in January in a blizzard. I got offered a lot of rides, to be fair. And I had a lot of funny mini-conversations at stoplights about the dangers of biking in the snow, where I was going, and what gear I used. Once, I also got gifted a pair of hand warmers. Another time, some stoned snowboarders offered me a puff of their joint.

One spring morning around 4:45 a.m., I was cruising down the hill from the house for my opening shift at Starbucks. Snow fell gently, the soft coattails of a storm that had dumped over a foot of it on our town overnight. Behind me was the white blanket of the road with just my one undulating tire track cutting through it. Ahead of me was more untracked whiteness broken up by one lumpy shadow. At first, I thought it was a downed tree that had given out under the weight of the wetter-than-usual spring snowfall. Then the lump moved. I was close enough then to register that the lump was bear-shaped. I skidded to a stop and froze. It froze. One of us–or perhaps both–was just waking up, and neither animal knew what to do.

The seconds ticked by as the black bear and I regarded each other. My heart pounded. The snow drifted. The silence was so complete it was almost like another entity. I slowly dismounted, thinking to put the bike between me and the wild creature, just in case, and the spell was broken. The bear crashed off into the woods and the racket of it propelled me into motion.

When I got to the intersection, three snowplow drivers had almost finished the entire parking lot ahead of me (usually I arrived at the start of their dance). I fishtailed to the already-illuminated Starbucks, locked my bike under the awning and busted in the door.

“Sorry I’m late!” I called as I rushed to the back, shedding layers and clumps of snow.

My boss just smiled, because I was almost always on time. Even though I do not do mornings well, I had gotten them down to a science: Clothes, makeup and jewelry was laid out the night before, backpack already prepped, bike and gear waiting just inside the mudroom door.

I heard the tinny whine of the espresso machine gearing up for another long day on the job. My acidic salvation was near.

“So what held you up?” My boss called from the front as I tied on a forest green apron.

“I had a stand off with a bear…”

“No way!”

“Way,” I answered. “Do I get the prize for best excuse ever?”

“Blue ribbon,” my boss said, handing me a shot of espresso.

It was late January on another Starbucks shift, in a moment of surprising calm in the midst of never-ending waves of tourists, when my boss turned to me and said, “Why is it that you ride your bike everywhere instead of driving?” He grinned. “Don’t tell me you got a DUI…” I’d been working for him for almost 5 years at that point, and we had developed an easy rapport.

I laughed. “No, nothing like that.” Then, I paused. “I think I just like the adventure.”

Riding my bike to and from work in every season had transformed something mundane into something far more interesting. It was good for the planet, yes, but it was also good for me. And for my efforts, I received countless unexpected gifts. Fresh air and sunshine. Shooting stars slashing the sky as I rode home after a dinner shift at the restaurant. A $20 bill in the mud behind the Arby’s when the snow finally thawed in May. Hilarious conversations with strangers and breath-taking encounters with wildlife.

To this day, more often than not I still grab my bike or tennis shoes out here in the Tuscan countryside, because these mini-adventures have become a habit that I took with me across the seas. Soon, I’ll start working on getting my Italian driver’s license (get ready to come on that adventure with me!), but I foresee taking the car will still be a conscious decision, and not an automatic one.

Getting places on my own steam might take a little longer, but perhaps that’s one of the things I appreciate: A way of being that demands I slow down. Each ride or walk an opportunity to be present. To feel the hot wind in my hair, and the sweat on my brow. To have the time to stop and eat a ripe fig right off a tree.