‘Tis the season. The season of the monsoon downpour that inevitably starts the second you hit the road. The season of short-lived sunshine that sneaks out of nowhere only to be unobtrusively swallowed by more clouds and rain. The season of gloves, both dry and wring-out wet.
The season that, sometimes, makes you want to hunker under blankets and drink tea.
(or, if your tent is set up near this, to get up fast before you float away;)
But it’s also the best season ever to ride. The activation energy is higher — it’s harder to throw yourself out into a world that seems nothing if not sloshy and cold — but gosh if it isn’t worth it every time:)
Though the idea of being soaked isn’t necessarily appealing, I’ve found that if I embrace the wet, I actually really enjoy it. It’s like being a kid again, splashing around with my rain boots, getting soaked with a giant smile on my face because I want to be out playing. I want to be outside, in all of nature’s incarnations.
(sun is lovely, but mists are magical:)
I can’t think of a single day, ever, where I’ve retrospectively wished I’d spent less time outside. There are days for sure that were not necessarily enjoyable at the time — riding back from Astoria in 10 hours of snow and rain come to mind — but even those I wouldn’t ever want to trade. It is always worth it. Always.
The world is a fragile, precious, beautiful place, and its various moods are all part of the year’s tapestry of death, growth, renewal. I want to be part of it, reveling in the sunshine as well as the monsoon. Bring it.