As I write this, I'm about to embark on a nice little two week vacation from work.
One of my key plans for my little staycation: go for several outdoor bike rides.
This has led to me contemplating the 10-day weather forecast, and noting that there's very little variation. There's cool rainy weather, and also, cool weather with showers.
Ah, spring in B.C.!
I am sure that a few people reading this are hardened all-weather cyclists, the sort of people who ride year-round, as long as there's not a snowstorm or hurricane-force winds.
I see them going by, fully swaddled up in gloves and insulated leggings and waterproof shoe covers, a balaclava tucked up under their nose, and I think, Good for you!
And then I usually go home and make a cup of tea and lie on the couch under a warm blanket. I'm not a naturally hardy person.
That said, I once did spend some time braving the elements on two wheels.
Many years ago, when I was training for a long charity bike ride, I did quite a bit of all-weather riding. I remember the sharp sting of hail on arms and legs (and the hollow rattling sound it makes off a bike helmet). I got to know the taste of road grit that's kicked up in the wet spray off the bike tires, and somehow finds its way into the little crevices in your back molars. I became adept at finding the one dry spot of my jersey, to use to wipe my glasses off so I could see鈥� something. Anything!
And then I became purely a recreational rider, and I mostly stopped riding in the rain. After all, why punish yourself?
But this year, I'm getting ready for a longish ride (the 120 km Valley GranFondo route) and so, I need to actually put in some miles outdoors. The exercise bike just won't cut it, not entirely.
So yes, I'll be riding in the rain again.
I have mortgaged my possessions to buy some wet-weather cycling gear (cycling, for some reason, is slightly less expensive than solo yachting) and I've dug out some other items from storage.
I'm also contemplating the pleasures that come from riding in the rain, because they do exist.
You can't live in the Lower Mainland and not appreciate a rainy day. The way the low grey clouds reach down with their ragged tendrils to caress the sides of the mountains. The patterns made by thousands of raindrops on a flooded field. The soft hiss of water on the bare branches of the cottonwoods, drowning out any hint of traffic or trains or any other mechanical noise.
And then there's coming home.
You wipe the worst of the water and grit off your bike and head inside.
You strip off soaked clothing and turn the shower knob as far towards hot as you can endure, until your skin is lobster-red.
You put on your warmest socks and sweater. You make yourself a cup of tea with honey, and sit on the couch, and appreciate having warm toes in a way you normally don't.
