...and Nothing You Can See Here
The fog limited visibility to about 100 feet. Despite having been down this road a bunch of times before, nothing looked the same. The lengths of climbs, descents, and flats were left to the imagination or vague memories. This made pacing somewhat interesting. Signs for scenic overlooks seemed like cruel jokes.
The front and rear blinky lights were just as ineffective as the headlights and taillights of the cars that would appear occasionally, heralded by the sound of their engines and the whine of their tires. The day-glow rain jacket that seems so offensively bright on normal days seemed to be in its element, alerting drivers that a lycra-covered flesh bag was on the road.
Mile after mile this went on. Hill after hill. Valley after valley.
Then the fog lifted so the rain could start. At first, a pleasant little drizzle that cooled you as you grunted up the hill, which eventually evolved into baseball-size drops that slapped you in the face as you sped down the last descent. The sunglasses that had exactly the wrong shade of lenses and were completely fogged over provided no protection from the onslaught. Pulling the cycling cap down even lower over your eyes was the only way to find any shelter.
Then you reached your goal. You snapped a quick picture to prove you actually were there instead of the local microbrewery, then turn around for the return trip.
The rain lets up a little. The fog drops back in. The cars appear and then disappear. The climbs and descents last as long as they need to, and not a moment longer. They aren't affected by the fog, even if you are. You finally reach your starting point and notice you're drenched by the rain instead of sweat for a change.
It's glorious to be riding again.
The front and rear blinky lights were just as ineffective as the headlights and taillights of the cars that would appear occasionally, heralded by the sound of their engines and the whine of their tires. The day-glow rain jacket that seems so offensively bright on normal days seemed to be in its element, alerting drivers that a lycra-covered flesh bag was on the road.
Mile after mile this went on. Hill after hill. Valley after valley.
Then the fog lifted so the rain could start. At first, a pleasant little drizzle that cooled you as you grunted up the hill, which eventually evolved into baseball-size drops that slapped you in the face as you sped down the last descent. The sunglasses that had exactly the wrong shade of lenses and were completely fogged over provided no protection from the onslaught. Pulling the cycling cap down even lower over your eyes was the only way to find any shelter.
Then you reached your goal. You snapped a quick picture to prove you actually were there instead of the local microbrewery, then turn around for the return trip.
It's glorious to be riding again.
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