I cycled through a puddle that resembled a lake. Not a huge lake, like something from the Lake District (where the clue is in the name) or the Great lakes of North America, but a a lake nonetheless. Let’s name it ‘Lake inferior‘. It’s water jettisoned either side in a tsunami to saturate socks and shoes, trouser hems and recently lubed chains. Up in front Evelyn danced from side to side like a conqueror of the alps, a queen of the mountains, a conquistador of Cols. Her aim? ‘I’m standing to keep the splashes off my tights Daddy’. She said it with a queen size grin and a glint in her eyes. It was 50/50 choice for overtrousers and for once I’d relented to her steadfast refusal. So why, precisely, am I riding from home to school to arrive with a mildly damp daughter, then turn back into the rain and the traffic, pop a saturated city bike back in the garage, only to collect the car, drive past the same school and head off to the M4?
A healthy mind.
That short blast through the rain makes all the difference. We have become so inoculated from our environments that people dash beneath watery skies like so many arrows have been loosened by Norman archers freeing narrow shafts of pain to shower heavily down. It’s just rain. Water. The stuff that I drink, wash and swim in. It matters little and we dry fast. Thankfully my daughter is now of the same mindset. She’d prefer to have a ride on her bike than be stuck in a steamed up car. She arrives content and smiling, and if the weather results in lunchtime being spent behind school doors, she will at least have had some exercise and arrived sharp and ready with an active and healthy mind. Now that’s got to be worth a wee bit of dampness, wouldn’t you think?