It was raining this morning; steady, pacing-itself rain, the drizzly kind that somehow gets you wetter than any downpour might. And I had to be in Bigtown for a meeting, or what passes for one in my current lifestyle. I did have the offer of a lift, and I could get the bus back afterwards, but I had planned to cycle if I could and it wasn’t looking promising. Come 9:30, when I had to either set off or arrange a lift, there was no let up. Getting a ride in a nice warm comfortable car was looking tempting. Very tempting.
But there was a problem. Each month this year, I have cycled less than in the month before. Ice and snow in January notwithstanding, I got out more than in the easier month of February, and short February had seen me do more miles than long March, and balmy April was shaping up no better than stormy March. There were reasons, of course, but excuses or no, nobody likes to see the graphs going in the wrong direction. Even the ride to Bigtown and back today would not stop the rot but it would slow the rate of decline and in these credit crunched times we have all learned that slowing the rate of decline is the new recovery.
And so I had to get out. But it was still raining. And, while it’s one thing to cycle in the rain if it starts while you’re out on your bike, it’s quite another to cold-bloodedly set off in the rain in the full knowledge you’ll be getting wet. So I had to resort to extreme measures.
I had to get out the waterproof trousers.
I’ve been holding out against waterproof trousers, to be honest. I know that they make sense, and that any unpleasantness due to their general rattliness and sweatiness pales into insignificance against the grimness of sitting around in soaking wet trousers but … well, they’re waterproof trousers. They’re not just unstylish, they’re the anti-style trouser. They will never come into fashion, however perverse the designers get. And if you didn’t look like an elephant from behind before, you will the minute you put them on. A smugly dry elephant, perhaps, but then smug’s not a particularly good look either.
And the bastarding things actually worked (I was secretly hoping they would be sweaty enough that it made no difference) so now I’ll have to wear them again the next time.
Does it never rain in Copenhagen?