|Partly Sunny: 29° F,|
wind 0°@ 0 mph, visibility 9 mi,
|This morning’s weather|
My virtual odometer rolled past 3,500 this morning on what was a post card view of Seattle: clear as a bell, Olympic mountains dusted with snow, pink sunrise reflecting off their peaks. So cold, but oh so pretty!
Too much information follows.
Extending my cycling into colder weather has produced a couple of interesting physiological experiences. First, I have to bundle up/layer on more to stay warm. My perspiration doesn’t evaporate as readily, and my clothes are soaked by the time I get to the ofice. And there are more of them. Ventilation in my office is already bad, but when I tried using a fan to air the clothes out, I merely propagated the, uh, manly scent. (Did I mention I sit across the hall from the Director of HR?)
I’ve asked about using some vacant cubes as an area to air stuff out as the other two cyclists have the same issues, but I’m trying to be delicate about broaching this issue because I could likely be dissuaded bike commuting. As much as I’d like to wear the same, dry clothes for the ride back, my options seem to be limited to:
- Invest heavily in a miracle fabric like Merino wool
- Hermetically seal the wet clothes in a plastic bag that I cycle out once a week
- Do the same, only bring it home every day.
- Not ride
Second, as soon as I hit the outdoor air, my nose starts filling with goo. I have the one finger, one nostril, one blow, one wipe motion down pat, but I had to do it six times this morning. It’ snot as bad on the way home, though. I suspect most cold-weather exercisers have to deal with this, but I’m still self-conscious about expunging in front of people, even though it’s necessary that I breathe.
Random, tangentially related aside: Far northwest of Houston is the annual Texas Renaissance Festival. During the time I lived there, the TRF grew from a homey seasonal diversion (the late 70s) to a full-bore seasonal mega-industry (early 90s), adding a concrete parking, corporate mastheads and double-digit pricing. In the late 80s there were a couple of performers with the stage names Snot and Puke whose muddy schtick would denouement with consumption of said viscous dirt. It was interesting to watch them work the crowds because they’d set the challenge level to $20, and count out loud as people donated, but did it fast enough that most people couldn’t count it out. They were visibly upset when someone whipped out a $20.