Friday, February 15, 2008
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Nostalgia; a long ride in the rain, and the same old story.
Nostos: homecoming. Algos: pain. Nostalgia: the pain of coming home.
On the East Coast, where I live, rain falls in heavy drops for a few hours at a time. On the West Coast, where I grew up, the overcast sky seems to spatter almost constantly. But people don't use umbrellas, because the rain won't soak, just dampen them. There is a joke about Dublin,"It only rains twice a week: once for three days, and once for four days." The same could be said of my hometown at the base of the Cascades mountain range.
I spent four hours today riding in spitting rain showers. This uncharactaristic weather brought me home–to running in soggy fields and cycling muddy gravel roads–to always being wet. If I still lived there, most days would be like this. In spite of foggy glasses and puddles in my shoes (all athletes must have at least a touch of masochism) I was enjoying my ride.
Out two hours and near nothing but trees and water, I remembered that my seat bag was on another bike; I had nothing with me to fix a flat. I hoped for good luck.
I got a flat. A doozy. I felt really stupid.
But by that time I was passing through a town with a bike shop. I called my GPS, by which I mean my roommate who is never far from the internet, and she gave me the shop's address and hours, and walking directions. It was less than a mile. I bought a tube, did the change with numb wet hands, and was on my way home–lucky after all.
On the East Coast, where I live, rain falls in heavy drops for a few hours at a time. On the West Coast, where I grew up, the overcast sky seems to spatter almost constantly. But people don't use umbrellas, because the rain won't soak, just dampen them. There is a joke about Dublin,"It only rains twice a week: once for three days, and once for four days." The same could be said of my hometown at the base of the Cascades mountain range.
I spent four hours today riding in spitting rain showers. This uncharactaristic weather brought me home–to running in soggy fields and cycling muddy gravel roads–to always being wet. If I still lived there, most days would be like this. In spite of foggy glasses and puddles in my shoes (all athletes must have at least a touch of masochism) I was enjoying my ride.
Out two hours and near nothing but trees and water, I remembered that my seat bag was on another bike; I had nothing with me to fix a flat. I hoped for good luck.
I got a flat. A doozy. I felt really stupid.
But by that time I was passing through a town with a bike shop. I called my GPS, by which I mean my roommate who is never far from the internet, and she gave me the shop's address and hours, and walking directions. It was less than a mile. I bought a tube, did the change with numb wet hands, and was on my way home–lucky after all.
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