I accept that my minute examination of the weather forecast is symptomatic of an accelerating slide into OCD. It is – along with Government policy, Public service organisations and Solicitor’s lunch hours – something which ratchets up my ire almost every day. And almost worse that that is my utter impotence to do anything about it.
Other than whinge. And, usefully, I am good at that.
Yesterday three forecasts united on an early Spring vision of clear skies and mid teen temperatures. Based on the divination of tea leaves that only the most expensive computer systems can get so terribly wrong, I was unsurprised* to set out on a night ride under a misty murk punctuated by a depressing drizzle.
As the clock struck seven, the little known ‘evening bridleway’ rule kicks in and trail poaching becomes the norm. Take away the horses hooves and the mud magically disappears leaving deep brown scars** through leafless trees. And exposed roots slick with rain which I confidently dispatched with less skill than bravado. Right up to the point when the abstract equation off camber + root + gravity – MTB tyre <> Grip switched to being alarmingly physical.
I tried to blame my tyres until it was pointed out that my friend Nige had blasted down the trail – accident free – on exactly the same make and model of rubber. I believe the correct terminology for my stack was “insufficiently skilled at the point of impact”
The rain stopped about exactly when we did. Roll on twelve hours and the veritable Beeb is calling for dirty clouds and incessant drizzle to welcome your Thursday morning commute. Ignoring the fact that history shows these besuited doom harbingers are nothing more than meteorological charlatans, I rain-jacketed up and headed out fully waterproofed.
Which, considering the glorious sunshine outside and my boiled in the bag persona inside the office, is a trifle galling. Allegedly this weekend will return us to the depths of winter, driving snow and gale force winds freezing the entire country in its’ icy grip. Well the wolf has cried once too many and I shall be resplendent in shorts and suncream.
And even if they are right and I am wrong, morally the victory shall me mine.
* but still grumpy.
** Soon to be red and bloody scars