Spring has come, bringing with her warmer temperatures, cloudy skies, and bouts of rain. I had managed to miss the showers this morning, the puddles in the playground across the street tranquil. My rain jacket was rolled up and strapped on my bag, and I was happily spinning along Butler Street with knickers, a long sleeve jersey, and a vest. Pure bliss. The roads were still damp from the early morning drizzle, and the strips of mud (a dirty reminder of the winter) sprayed my hands and arms, freckling them. As I entered the maze of downtown, the drizzle started again, but I was too close to the office to bother with the rain jacket.

Eight hours later. The sun has peeked out from behind the blanket of gray here and there, but the covers have been drawn again. The streets, at least those I can see from my window, are slowing drying. The rain jacket stays in place. I spin back out of time, reading traffic, timing lights, slipping in and out of the machinery of rush hour. The headwind picks up in the Strip District, and I dodge the ever-widening potholes on the skirt of Smallman Street. Back on Butler Street, it starts again — just a slight sprinkle, barely enough moisten the arms of my jersey. But a few blocks later, the rain falls in earnest, soaking my jersey. Too late to stop and put on the jacket now.

The switch is gradual. A few blocks later, I’m pedaling with a greater sense of purpose. Drops of rain gather on the brim of my helmet, and I promise, again, to buy a cap. I pick up my cadence, push my helmet down a bit, and lean forward. Soon, the blinders are on. I don’t notice the traffic as much — I’m just aware enough to know where the cars are, and where they are going, but I don’t the time to peer in the windows. The mud on the side of the road flicks off my tyres and on my shoes, lower legs, and face. As I pass the 62nd Street Bridge and approach the short rise near Baker Street, I’m out of my saddle earlier than the first telephone past the antiques store. I’ve got no interest in conserving energy. Despite the warmer temperatures, I can feel my arms, now soaked to the bone, cramping a bit. It doesn’t matter much though. A few minutes later, the rain slows a bit, and roll up to the house.

Posted on 28 March 2005