Dark Was The Night, Cold Was The Ground
The ‘season of mists and mellow fruitfulness‘ is upon us and already there’s a sharpness and snap to the weather. It’s especially noticeable if, like me, you’re a keen cyclist. I have to wear gloves now, lest my hands solidify into lumpish, claw-like appendages.
I’ve always detested hats and caps and refused to wear them, despite being assured by innumerable people that ‘…you lose 50% (60%, 70%, 80%…) of your body heat through your head‘. I always viewed this assertion with suspicion and it’s now been comprehensively debunked.
The main hazard of winter riding, aside from the hordes of atrocious drivers who no more belong behind the wheel of a car than in the cockpit of an F-16, is ice. Especially treacherous to riders like me, whose bikes roll on performance slicks. But as Aunt Dahlia’s excitable French chef Anatole was wont to remark, ‘…I can take a few smooths with a rough.’ I take a tumble now and again but I just pick myself up, dust myself off and start all over again.
Say…that’s kind of catchy. I could make a song out of that. And speaking of songs, it’s time for you lot to get your mukluks on, slather your face with seal-blubber, hitch up the dog-team and deliver a Sonnet on winter…mush, you Huskies.