I took to the saddle again today after work. It was a rainy ride. This isn’t something that sneaked up on me. Really, I timed it so I would be riding in the rain. It has been so hot here lately, coinciding with my “rebirth on the bike,” that I knew it was going to be a ride to savor. To quote the devil in “O Brother Where Art Thou” it was
“Sweet summer rain. Like God’s own mercy.”
Everything in the countryside smells better after a rain, except for the livestock. You can quote me on that. The last quarter of my 14 mile ride was dry, and it has been trying to clear up again. It’ll be back in the high nineties again tomorrow. Am I complaining? No.
Everyone talks about the heat index like a bunch of air conditioned wusses. Ok, don’t think I’m hard hearted. I understand that gran and gramps need to be climate controlled. I don’t disagree. Because we all know that the elderly are constantly adjusting the thermostat down, right? Whatever. I seriously get the part about vulnerable populations.
But come on. The reason the rest of us are air conditioned wusses who have to run out to the car and turn on the air fifteen minutes before taking a five minute drive to the grocery store are wusses because the system hasn’t been stressed enough. Its the same reason all these kids have asthma. We’ve slathered them with antibacterial goop and didn’t let them eat dirt.
So when I hear an able bodied, usually uniformed person complaining about the heat index, I stare at them and say: “It’s heat. It happens every summer. Drink water and shut up.”
The three most discriminated groups in America today, I’m convinced, are smokers, Catholics, and sweaty people. If you’re a sweaty Catholic smoker, you’re going to change something or I fear for your future.