Getting Out There

The clouds cloaked the foothills to the east of Anchorage. A steady rain started falling. Not a heavy rain, but the kind that slowly soaks you and makes the temperature seem about 15 degrees lower. I sat in my car and contemplated this as I returned to work from lunch.
 
That afternoon I would ride. That afternoon I would get wet. That afternoon my back would slowly clench up and begin aching from the cold soaking. The rain would slowly work its way past my shoe covers and into my shoes. Tides of foot funk-infused water would flow from the shoes with every down stroke, only to be replaced on the up stroke. I would be coated with a fine layer of road grit from head to toe, and all of the wonderful substances that make up that grit. My bike would be covered with that same gunk, and my chain would be relentlessly stripped of all oil-based lubrication.
 
Under my trusty cap and rain jacket, I would settle into a rhythm and adjust to the situation. While not exactly comfortable, it wasn't exactly uncomfortable either. I was riding, which is better than not riding. To not at least make a decent attempt would be regretted in the long, cold months ahead. Miles I could have ridden but didn't, simply because of a small inconvenience like rain, are miles lost forever.
 
I just had to suit up and get out there.