The Mythical Blue
The best way to describe the weather when I started out was changeable. Within 100 feet of my driveway, the sunny skies started to shower down. It was 59 degrees and the rain didn’t make me any warmer. 5 years ago I would have turned around and bagged the ride, but those days are over. I needed this ride, and badly.
The rain continued and the skies darkened overhead. In the distant sky I could see a good patch of blue. I turned my bike toward it and kept pedaling.
The wind whipped up, and leaves let go from their trees and swirled around me. The rain started to bite a little. Water slowly dripped from the center point in the front of my helmet, down over my glasses. Strangely, the sun still shined on, despite the dark and blustery skies. It was like riding through weather potpourri. I thought–this is why cross racing is just so cool. They race in warm sun, wind, rain, snow, pretty much anything the skies dish out. They are a tough breed. But I’m no cross racer. I kept heading toward the blue patch is the unattainable distance. As I became wetter and colder, the blue patch took on this mythological status: it was an illusion. I would never reach it. I didn’t care, I was out riding my bike. Besides, fortune favors the bold, said Virgil. I pedaled on.
And then, suddenly the rain stopped. The sun felt warm, and the pavement dry. I was in the blue clearing! I stayed there most of the ride. As I circled around and got closer to home, the rain started in again. But not before I snuck 22 miles into an otherwise crowded and altogether reality-filled day.