Morning rain. Flashbacks. Stoicism.
Rain fell in Heavy, straight, vertical lines. If there were gaps between the drops you couldn’t see them. I lowered my head slightly, the peak of my cap keeping the liquid assault from my eyelids. The street was full of traffic. Yesterday’s pedestrians were today’s motorists. I’m not sure I could blame them. A curtain of rain is the powerful opponent of cycling pragmatism. I got flashbacks from the 80s.Sunday morning paper round. Penetrating rain. Three heavy courier bags. Papers full of the miners strike. Supplements full of day-glo sartorial advice. Cottrell Road, Kepoch Street, Minny Street. Duran Duran, The Smiths, The The. Silent. Cold. Grey.
Riding past Blackweir bridge, two riders loomed into view. One fixed me in the eyes and nodded. Spirit of the blitz and all that. At North Road, the first bus sent a Tsunami over a rider at the crossing. The second gave a wider berth. Peter rolled up. I chastised him for his erroneous weather forecasting at cyclo-cross training the previous evening. I don’t think any of us saw cloudbursts lurking ‘neath crystal clear moonlight.
I caught up with the bus victim. ‘At least the second bus was kinder!’ I offered. ‘Yeah. Great’ came the sodden reply.
Top image: Penarth seafront in the rain. Image taken with an ipod touch.