Today was the day I convinced some work colleagues that they wanted to come out on a cold December's day for a bike ride. The moment I woke up I glanced over at the bedroom blinds for a sneak preview of what the weather had in store. Sure enough, golden beams of sunlight were fanning out from underneath like the intro to a Prodigy concert. I optimistically felt assured that the day would be a success.
A bowl of muesli later I peered out of the kitchen window for a more detailed inspection of Mother Nature's work and discovered that the clear blue skies that had presumable created my bedroom laser show were limited and patchy with ominous cumulus (Latin for bloomin' big grey clouds) were looming on the horizon. In my favour was the low-light sunrise of a sunny winter's day that will surely trick those colleagues of mine into at least packing up their cars with adequate steads. The large fluffy grey clouds that stood in between me riding with friends and me riding alone had a certain apricot and pastel pink glow that contrasted quite innocently against the bright blue sky as though chalked out by an Monet-loving artist. 'Aha,' I thought, 'That'll get them out their front doors at least.' and we all know that is the hardest part on a winter's day.
An hour later and I'd reached my destination with only a few threatening rain drops on the windscreen. I unload my bike in unexpected blustery winds - not the handiest of elements when you own the least most practical car for holding a bike (have you guessed it? Yes, it's a 1989 Austin Mini). As I perform my near perfected bike-removal yoga to extract the beast from the backseat of my miniature vehicle the gales have fun throwing my hair around my face and covering my eyes at key stages like a childish trickster. Fear of scratching my recently renovated antique causes the usually smooth process to be broken into stop-start act that took far longer than usually. tension in my gut is building. 'Stay calm' I thought to myself, hoping that the colleagues had noticed the change in weather.
So there I was. Bike in hand, hair in face, dressed for an arctic expedition in bright sunshine waiting for the others to arrive. I convince myself that they have parked in the next car park along and are happily spinning their way over to me oblivious to the once peachy clouds now closing in with a blackened centre. If can get them lined up ready to go before it rains, it will happen. If not, then... well, the bike gods will decide. This got me thinking; there's a classic misconception that calling the ride off once you're already dressed up and unpacked is just as much effort to undo and return home as it is to continue on with the ride. My phone vibrates in my back pocket. Gloves off, puncture repair kit falls on the floor, text retrieved; 'stuck on the M4' it reads. Oh dear. Darn. 'They'll never get here before it rains,' I think to myself.
I decide to take shelter in the local leisure centre I'd parked at. No sooner had I sat down inside I heard an awful noise. People were running inside like a bomb had just gone off in the car park. I turned to face the window and witness the most epic downpour of slept and hail that I'd seen for some time. People were diving into cars head first and running into shops like mad men. I half expect an air-raid siren to sound. 'Oh dear,' I though to myself again, 'this is not encouraging'. I look over to my bike locked up outside and seeming sulking in the rain and imagined a wonderful scenario where the clouds part in a god-like fashion and sunshine burst out to reveal bluebirds and clear trails ahead. It didn't happen. In stead I realise the potential reality that would have to dismantle my bike again and perform vehicle-entering yoga in order to return back home without even having the satisfaction of a ride in my legs.
This fun-packed morning got me thinking. How naughty does Mother Nature have to be to put us off? I there a linear equate that plots the relationship between the state of the weather and the length of time a rider has been riding? I know I certain forgive Mrs M more than my less experienced colleagues, but where is the cross over? What would it take you to give up a ride when you actually want to go out for a ride?? For me, that day, it was the sad look on my colleagues faces and the prospect of me riding alone in hail. This probably my breaking point. A great lonesome mid-December non-adventure.
A bowl of muesli later I peered out of the kitchen window for a more detailed inspection of Mother Nature's work and discovered that the clear blue skies that had presumable created my bedroom laser show were limited and patchy with ominous cumulus (Latin for bloomin' big grey clouds) were looming on the horizon. In my favour was the low-light sunrise of a sunny winter's day that will surely trick those colleagues of mine into at least packing up their cars with adequate steads. The large fluffy grey clouds that stood in between me riding with friends and me riding alone had a certain apricot and pastel pink glow that contrasted quite innocently against the bright blue sky as though chalked out by an Monet-loving artist. 'Aha,' I thought, 'That'll get them out their front doors at least.' and we all know that is the hardest part on a winter's day.
An hour later and I'd reached my destination with only a few threatening rain drops on the windscreen. I unload my bike in unexpected blustery winds - not the handiest of elements when you own the least most practical car for holding a bike (have you guessed it? Yes, it's a 1989 Austin Mini). As I perform my near perfected bike-removal yoga to extract the beast from the backseat of my miniature vehicle the gales have fun throwing my hair around my face and covering my eyes at key stages like a childish trickster. Fear of scratching my recently renovated antique causes the usually smooth process to be broken into stop-start act that took far longer than usually. tension in my gut is building. 'Stay calm' I thought to myself, hoping that the colleagues had noticed the change in weather.
So there I was. Bike in hand, hair in face, dressed for an arctic expedition in bright sunshine waiting for the others to arrive. I convince myself that they have parked in the next car park along and are happily spinning their way over to me oblivious to the once peachy clouds now closing in with a blackened centre. If can get them lined up ready to go before it rains, it will happen. If not, then... well, the bike gods will decide. This got me thinking; there's a classic misconception that calling the ride off once you're already dressed up and unpacked is just as much effort to undo and return home as it is to continue on with the ride. My phone vibrates in my back pocket. Gloves off, puncture repair kit falls on the floor, text retrieved; 'stuck on the M4' it reads. Oh dear. Darn. 'They'll never get here before it rains,' I think to myself.
I decide to take shelter in the local leisure centre I'd parked at. No sooner had I sat down inside I heard an awful noise. People were running inside like a bomb had just gone off in the car park. I turned to face the window and witness the most epic downpour of slept and hail that I'd seen for some time. People were diving into cars head first and running into shops like mad men. I half expect an air-raid siren to sound. 'Oh dear,' I though to myself again, 'this is not encouraging'. I look over to my bike locked up outside and seeming sulking in the rain and imagined a wonderful scenario where the clouds part in a god-like fashion and sunshine burst out to reveal bluebirds and clear trails ahead. It didn't happen. In stead I realise the potential reality that would have to dismantle my bike again and perform vehicle-entering yoga in order to return back home without even having the satisfaction of a ride in my legs.
This fun-packed morning got me thinking. How naughty does Mother Nature have to be to put us off? I there a linear equate that plots the relationship between the state of the weather and the length of time a rider has been riding? I know I certain forgive Mrs M more than my less experienced colleagues, but where is the cross over? What would it take you to give up a ride when you actually want to go out for a ride?? For me, that day, it was the sad look on my colleagues faces and the prospect of me riding alone in hail. This probably my breaking point. A great lonesome mid-December non-adventure.
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