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It was in the 70s Tuesday. Rained most of yesterday. Downright cold today.
So I wore this lovely Christmas gift:
Never had a lodge shirt. Maybe I live too far south. But it is nice and soft and I imagined it would be very warm. And it was. Also, I don’t think I’ve ever owned a product made in the proud nation of Kenya, so that’s nice.
Also, the shirt is warm.
This is how we know it is cold, the cat consented to covers. An Allie burrito:
Is it spring yet?
I love everything about riding in the rain, so the hour I spent outside today was a delight. It started out just cool and overcast, but before I got halfway to the second turn I was in a drizzle. And then came the plet, plink, blet of the raindrops as I cut through town.
My jacket kept me warm as I watched the drops get ready to fall from the bike frame. I love dodging little puddles standing in improbable places and the little patches of grease and oil that stand out on the road in the fresh coating of water.
I love how that one drop of water forms on the bottom of my helmet and hangs on for the longest time, intent on finally hitting the ground somewhere else. How my glasses get rain on the inside and out, and how the rain is cold enough to keep them from fogging up, but still makes them almost useless, so you wind up peering through the space between glasses and helmet.
My gloves are soaked, but warm, and the cold feeling of the soles of my shoes pushing off the ground when a red light flips to green. I like how the little Cateye computer is apparently waterproof, and how the little tool bag under my saddle gets wet from probably every direction.
When the rain gets into my shoes, and my socks are full of the stuff I imagine that it makes me ride stronger, because of the extra weight pushing down into the little circular stroke on the pedals. It probably doesn’t, but I like to imagine it does when I lean over the handlebars and imagine this little roller is the biggest hill that’s ever been topped.
And then, on the downhill side, I felt like I was riding a bicycle again. Maybe that means I’m mostly recovered from my spill last summer. I didn’t think about my shoulder or the sound or that long and still-somewhat ongoing recovery, just the ride. (And how all of my fitness is gone.)
I love the sounds, the whizzing of the tires through a thin film of water and the trickling of runoff into the drainage system. When you pass by them on both sides, you get that rumbling drainage sound in stereo.
Something about the rain and the gunmetal skies and the water on the road changes the nature of noise. There is one brief moment, somewhere around 21 miles per hour, when the wind sounds like a car beginning to track you down. In the rain that is muted, and amplified. You have to go a little bit faster to get that sound. So when I came down the last two little hills when I turned toward home I got to dive into four little turns to build a little more speed the reward is even louder.
And then, having circled the town and the ride is nearing its end, the rain does too. It was with me the whole time, and so there I am, imagining through my foot over the top tube, giving my legs a break and lungs a rest. Passing underneath the beautiful, bare oaks in the bottom of the neighborhood, I get the gravity shower. Everything but my back is wet, because I’ve opened my jacket.
I love everything about riding in the rain. Except the cleanup. Now it is sprinkling again and I have to get the helmet and the jacket and the shoes off so I can grab a towel to dry the frame and components on my bike.
And I’m getting grease and dirt and grim everywhere. My wheels are covered in the stuff for reasons I can’t explain. And the back of my jacket is dirty, from back wheel spray I guess. I towel off the big parts and wipe down the rest with paper towels. Then I can finish my water, of which there is plenty because I found myself just inhaling the fresh stuff on the ride. And then a chocolate milk and a shower and finally I can be dry again. But I love everything about riding in the rain.
I did laundry today. I looked for a little bottle of touchup paint. Not for the laundry, of course, but as a separate instance of doing something tangible. Going to a hobby shop and saying “I need something vaguely the shade of the car from Dukes of Hazzard” was, naturally, less productive than I’d hoped for.
Cool place, though. He had model planes and model cars. He had Normandy invasion dioramas right next to models for the Enterprise. He had a plane that, at first, I thought had been buried to give it that aged look. When you leaned it you could see it was painted on. Incredible.
Anyway, I had pictures on my phone, but they were only so helpful I should have just taken my bike. On this topic the Internet is not very helpful, but that’s more the bike maker’s fault than the Internet. The Felt site says “Gloss Orange.” Having said “This one … No … This one … No … ” at least six times today I’m sure there is more variation in orange than I’d like. For a moment I’d convinced myself that the paint in the red-orange bottle was the right color. Life is good; these are the sorts of dilemmas that vex me.
I spent the afternoon at the library, where I was when a high school student called to ask me about the journalism and mass communication program at Samford. I stood outside in the beautiful sunshine — it was about 70 degrees — and talked on the phone.
I went inside, wrote emails. Did research. Looked up and wondered it had possibly become that vaguely defined “evening.” It was only 4 p.m., but what was sunny now looked like the gloaming. And then the rains came, that good Hollywood stuff that just appeared and saturated everything. The weather reports say we got about two-tenths of an inch. Certainly seemed like more.
About the time the rain let up I began to wonder if I’d rolled my window back up. (I had.) I got in the car and was fiddling around with my phone and backpack and various things and listened to sirens go up and down the road in a big hurry. I got engrossed in an email on my phone when a police officer parked next to me.
They’d found me!
It is important that he parked next to me, and not behind me. And that he helped his son hop out of the passenger seat. They were going to look for things at the library together! The child was the age when it would be So. Cool. to ride in a police car. Just a Tuesday with dad for this guy, though.
At home I looked at journals. I ate two tangelos and thoroughly disproved the efficacy of the peeling method I’d used just the night before. I listened to music while I dripped juice down my fingers. At one point the first orange was just drenching the second, unpeeled, orange. In that first moment, that orange dripping on an orange moment of watching-something-fall-and-not-being-able-to-stop-it was full of bizarre thoughts.
Should I move that orange? Should I move this one? Do I need to rinse it off? That’s a lot of juice. Why am I even going to eat this one now? There’s nothing left to it. Just look at it all over the place.
My hands were sticky for a long time after that.
To the grocery store, where we bought dinner and forgot our “Save The World” bags. The very nice cashier helpfully pointed out that we could use this plastic one to line the garbage can in our bathroom. Why has this cashier been in my bathroom? How did she know that was this bag’s fate?
Watched some episodes of Parks and Recreation. I want a DJ Roomba:
And also a ghost Roomba:
Also watched this, because this is always right:
I wonder why those tux ties didn’t stick around longer.
Much more on Twitter, including CBS and CNet, the reinvention of the baby boomer, an interactive map of drones being used for law enforcement in the U.S. today and a cat listening to Bob Marley. A few things on Tumblr today, too.
On pageants: A scholarship contest that requires a bikini competition starts out as a suspect issue. But if you want to take part, good for you. I don’t have an opinion one way or another, but you can’t help but notice that pageants do allow for odd reactions.
If you want to feel a bit feminist, stick with this disparaging bit of video for 60 seconds:
Kevin Scarbinsky calls Katherine Webb a golddigger.. and other creepy analysis from adults. from TheAuburner on Vimeo.
The host, the guy on the right, has Emmy awards and Best Sportscaster awards and the guy in the middle is the local columnist, radio guy, bomb thrower. Makes you proud, doesn’t it?
Need some regional bias? A New York City reporter went out to get the pulse of the city. “Ms. America is Ms. New York! And she is from … how do you say the name of that little town? Not important.” Here’s a report on the groundbreaking report:
But, according to a television news report from WPIX in New York [WARNING: Video begins playing automatically], some Brooklynites are not following the lead of their state’s senior senator.
WPIX reporter Magee Hickey took to the streets of Brooklyn, where Hagan eventually wound up after leaving Opelika (which Hickey pronounced Opel-EEK-uh) to interview her neighbors.
“There’s enough pretty women in New York that could run for Miss America. She shouldn’t be allowed to,” said one interviewee.
“Born in Alabama? That’s a lot of South to recover from,” one neighbor told Hickey.
We do have a terrible and tiresome affliction, I’ll grant you. How Mallory Hagan managed to stand upright and not gawk at everything in Brooklyn is a question for the ages.
Wikipedia tells us this: She is a native of Alabama, where she had been runner-up in the Miss Alabama’s Outstanding Teen Program, and non-finalist talent winner at Miss Alabama.
Less pretty, I waited out the rain and road back and forth on the two little hills that dip down into the creek bed near our house. This is the easiest little ride, a road perpendicular to the stream as it meanders through the neighborhood. (Maybe Miss America has been on this road!) My legs think it is a climb. The map says it is a gentle incline. I hate when the map is right.
For no reason in particular, my rear brakes:
That little part of the neighborhood is buzzing with activity. I’d have taken a picture of that, but I was too busy with my head down trying to catch my breath. There was an older guy slowly riding a bike. Two older gentlemen were walking. One lady walking a dog, another walking a cell phone. Kids were playing. A school bus stopped to let off reinforcements. A red car ran through the school bus’ stop signs and did not heed the bus honking a warning.
He had. Places. To Be. Man.
The kids got off the bus and all turned to the other side. He put the thing in gear and passed an SUV that obeyed the law and then me. By then the bus driver had already recovered and gave me a nice wave, which is better than you usually get from the buses. They are the most dangerous people in town for cyclists, I’m convinced.
Anyway, the point is hills and humidity. It was 70 degrees with 78 percent humidity when I got off the bike. I think I bumped every wall with my sweaty arms when I came back inside.
Also, the bike felt really good today. Got way down in the gears, had the wind in my ears, kept thinking there was a noisy car behind me. Felt great.
“Investigative journalism, what ever happened to that? John Oliver investigates in his new investigation investigating investigative journalism.”
The piece got a great reaction on Twitter.
Former Chicago Sun-Times editor and SIlicon Valley CEO Alan Mutter likes investigative journalism on YouTube. A little Kickstarter, a little labor of love, a good pitch to the right editor and you’re off and running.
Investigative journalism and watchdog reporting are what we need the most. Those are usually the second and third things cut, however, right after the copy editors. But at least we can do man-on-the-street reports about Miss America.
The weekly attempt to pad the day with photos. This week it is more thin than ever! Let us begin, then.
She’s a 10, even when she’s out of focus! This is at the Kentucky-Auburn gym meet on Friday:
I dropped all of the old footage off of this Flip — I have an idea for a future video project because of it! — because I’m loaning it to a friend. I bet her video will be a lot better than mine:
Seemed like there needed to be something from the bike here since this is the week I finally got to ride again. Here’s the stem, I look down at it a lot:
Allie? She’s just fine, thanks for asking:
