Whether Weather

Dear J—

We’re entering that stage of the year where everything seems to be blanketed in a perptual state of grinding, unending damp: this morning the ground was wet and I couldn’t tell if it was overnight rain or a heavy mist pressing itself down up on the earth. One reliable gauge I’ve used is my helmet strap; when it’s dry I have to bend it into place, but right now, when it’s as floppy and silky as new, I know our relative humidity is approaching a hundred. Last night was the Holiday Train whcih we didn’t do as we were approaching the tail end of our evening.

I check the weather on my phone in the mornings once the alarm goes off (also thanks to the phone, which  requires a fair bit of dexterity to silence, and so is a very good tool for that) and this morning besides displaying the usual time temperature and precipitation forecast that determines how I dress (ha ha, just kidding: I dress the same every day, it seems: cycling 3/4 trousers, long sleeve dress/sport shirt, and a flannel on top along with the safety vest) it gave a high surf alert. That gave us warnings about avoiding the potentially deadly sneaker tides and rip tides, and what to do: (“never turn your back on the ocean,” like some sort of treacherous foe). 

That’s sound advice, though. You and I may love it, but it’s pretty indifferent to our abilities.



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