“Maybe this wasn’t a good idea,” I thought as I came out of the drive this morning into the face of a sinister western sky. “Maybe I should turn back,” I considered as it started to spit. By the time I hit 17-92, this was a bad-idea, full-fledged. The rain was pouring down, the water was spanking off the spokes, and I was shaking my glasses to clean them. But I was committed now, and kept the push up all the way to work.
I did notice that all the fossil-burners came in an hour late, fuming about the horrible traffic. I’d had my precipitation problems, sure, but conjestion isn’t an issue (unless a truck hits me).
Eight hours passed, my clothing mildewing downstairs, my shoes as wet as old soup crackers, my socks reeking nastiness. All these went on at 5pm like a wet bathing suit on a cold day. On the loading dock, the trees swayed with the heavy gusts. Oh great.
But no, this time the weather was in my favor, the wind to my back. With 30mph gusts, I flew home. Every street was packed, every light was three or four changes for the damned. But for me on my bike lane, glorious, the air cool, the wind an ally, the lighting easy, the peddling effortless. I loved every second of it.
Two sides of a storm front, the Ying and Yang of it.