The forecast said .38 inches of rain per hour Sunday morning. For those of you who don’t look at the NOAA website multiple times each day, that translates to bombing rain. Misery loves company and so I sent two text messages to a couple of our more “Belgian” brothers.
Amid darkness and drizzle six of us rolled out. As the rain increased so did our numbers. Soon we were eight, then ten and finally eleven as rolled around the rock known as Mercer Island in a heavy rain. So far this fall we have had colder rides and wetter rides, but this one was the coldest wet ride. As McWoodie later confessed, “We have all this expensive rain gear, we might as well use it.”
The groupetto of wisdom formed with the phrase “base miles” tossed back and forth like a password. This was a good excuse to keep it in zone two on the slick roadway. “Thanks, but no thanks,” was our reply when considering a return lap. We were fully saturated and could not justify the value of seven more kilometers of hypothermic riding in December.
“The coffee is calling me,” El Jefe’ blurted out. With that we agreed to cut through the tunnel and made our way directly to FUEL coffee.
After the coffee we dug deep into our suitcases of courage (nod to our late brother Paul Sherwin) and pulled on our cold and clammy gloves for the short ride to homes and cars. The season of winter riding is here and we braced for the wet icy hug.
A few minutes later I put my bike in the back of WW2, changed shoes and turned the car heater to “BROIL.”
Based on my own experience, my guess is that by dinner time most of us were warm once again.