The problem with saying never is you’ve immediately made a commitment.  Some, like saying I’ll never smash my fingers with a hammer for entertainment are pretty easy to keep admittedly, but saying something as foolish as I’m never riding in the rain…again…until I get rain gear are arbitrarily limiting, and who likes arbitrary limits?

I started off last year avoiding the bike if it even looked like it might rain.  This wasn’t so much a fear of rain as an excuse to take the day off.  The introduction of our Gentlemen’s Wager (first to 1000km) rewarded riding in the rain, doubly so when my competition wouldn’t.  While I wouldn’t say I embrace riding in the rain, I wasn’t letting it stop me.

Tuesday afternoon, I rode home in a rain that had me sloshing about within the first two kilometers.  It was a miserable ride with miserable rain and a miserable headwind.  I did not enjoy the ride as one might infer and I vowed no more riding in the rain until I was properly outfitted.  That arbitrarily limiting statement stood three days before it became a challenge.  A challenge to which I quickly succumbed.

Ordinarily one might think of failing a challenge to be failure.  In this scenario I think failing to live up to the statement I’m not riding in the rain is in fact the preferred course of action.  I am, after all, not made of a water-soluble exterior (at least not while I’m still moving and breathing), and the gear that I have keeps me reasonably warm.  Or so I thought.

It started innocently enough.  A check of the forecast this morning showed a light rain turning to snow as the day wore on.  The radar map showed a large green (IE rain) mass heading from the west but the timing showed the worst of it arriving about the time I was due back.  I questioned my wisdom as I geared up, stuffing my pockets with enough road fuel for a 3-hour trip, strapping on my sort-of water proof Gore-Tex pants and my not-water-proof riding jacket but forged ahead with my ride.

The relative lack of puddles and the dry spots around parked vehicles suggested a lack of significant precipitation.  The wavering trees confirmed the presence of the 33km/h NW wind.  Did I forget to mention that bit?  Oh – yes, in addition to the precipitation, there was a wee wind.

The geographical location of home base presents some logistical issues when faced with a north westerly wind.  We are higher than the primary north/south pathway system, which lies to the east.  We go down to the path and up to home.  Heading south on the path is, with a handful of exceptions fairly flat – easy pedaling – and as such, my desired direction.  However, while it would be a fast and easy trip south, it would mean the entire return journey faced into the aforementioned wind.  Not appealing.

Head west or north from home base and you’re climbing.  It’s not huge elevation nor is it killer-steep.  It’s a long, steady slog up the hills and today, into the wind.  I opted to tackle the hills and the wind first, riding north and west as far as I could before heading home both downhill and with a tailwind.  Excellent plan.

I don’t often ride in the northwest as I have no destination there.  This means I’m not overly familiar with the path system or even the road network.  I can’t keep track of which trail or boulevard is going which way.  While the City of Calgary has done a commendable job signing the bike routes on the roads, there are some gaps and I could not for the life of me figure out how to get over – or if I wanted to – Beddington Trail while staying on the path.  It didn’t help that with the overcast skies and the lack of streets or avenues (so one might be able to figure out what direction he was pedaling), I had no idea what direction the road  was going.  I knew I wanted to go north, but I no longer knew where North was.  I headed down dead-ended bike paths, back-tracked up hills and generally confused myself a great deal.

I could have used my gadget to look at a map, find my position on it and then reference the fantastic City of Calgary Pathway and Bikeways app to figure out how to get where I wanted to go.  I didn’t do that.  I didn’t do that because that’s not what I do, apparently.

The precipitation was no longer a drizzle.  It was a full-on rain but I’d thwarted it with careful seam preparation and thick winters sock over my double-layer winter running socks, a gift from Best Wife.  While I was pretty sure parts of me were getting wet, I was still warm save for my face so I ploughed on trying to find a way over to Nose Creek park from the north side of whatever that road it s that runs east-west (that’d be Beddington Trail for future reference).  I continued to twist and turn until I crossed a pedestrian bridge over a multi-lane road (success!) and began heading east.

The quick blasts downhill stung my face with rain turning to something more solid and there was standing water on the flat sections now.  Slogging along up a long hill, I caught sight of another Porsche parked in someone’s driveway and thought to myself – what a strange coincidence, two convertible Porsches back into their…wait a minute… nooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!  Ah damn!  I was not going east.  I had not crossed the right road.  I was going in circles.

I pulled under the cover of the Husky gas pumps and ate a Honey Stinger waffle while I pondered my next move.  I had no idea where I was, how I got there or where I should be going.  I’d been riding for an hour and was no longer warm and dry, my feet squishing around in wet socks.  I picked a road at random and followed it until it turned into something I recognized and then followed that.  Slowly I picked my way back to Centre Street and Beddington something-or-other where I knew I’d find my path north.

Slowly I ground up the hill into the driving rain and headwind, knowing that some downhill salvation was waiting on the other side.  I was cold, wet and fully insane in my determination to get where I was going.  I pedaled down the hill to the underpass which would feed me into Nose Creek Park but stopped short.  Do I really want to do this?  I could turn around right now, slog it up this hill and then coast downhill almost all the way home.  Home, where it’s warm and dry and I can climb into a hot shower.

That’s the thing with insanity.  It’s insane.  I pedaled north, fighting with my clipless pedal that was refusing to clip (making it remarkably slippery as wet metal on metal tends to be).  I started talking to my pedal out loud which should have been a sign.  Finally clipped in, I rode into the deserted park and headed east.  The rain left large puddles on the trail and the drivetrain sprayed water up the back of my right leg until it finally found a way past the Gore-Tex, dripping it’s icy self down the back of my formerly dry calf.  I did not smile.

I chose the easy route out of the park, anxious to head for home, having accomplished my crazy, pointless mission.  The north wind was pushing me furiously and I found myself in the top of the big ring, making my first real speed of the day.  I checked my mileage and the time, thought about the consequences of going past my turn and decided to push for the river.  My gloves were soaked through, frozen fingers and frozen toes a constant distraction.  I rode on averaging 30km/h over the next 10km all the while the return trip looming in my mind.

I stopped under the Memorial Drive overpass, common sense finally trumping the enjoyment of speed.  I snarfed down a Clif bar with shockingly numb hands, making a futile attempt to hide from the wind behind a bridge pillar.  I could no longer ignore the pain coming from my wet toes and my fingers were all but non-functional they were so cold.  The rain had long turned to a heavy wet snow making a less-than-stellar ride that much more arduous.  I stuffed the empty wrapper in my jersey pocket and turned around for home.

The ride home was exactly as you might think.  A freezing, driving slush/rain, a fierce headwind and a Rescue Bike that was beginning to malfunction.  I couldn’t determine whether it was my inability to feel my fingers that was hampering the bike, or if it was the bike rebelling against the conditions.  I stared at a spot a few feet in front of the tire, shifted into the middle of the middle ring and tried not to think about my frozen appendages.

Half way up the bus trap hill, I determined that in addition to my own lack of digit-functionality, the Rescue Bike was indeed sick.  I tried to shift into the granny ring so I could sit and pedal slowly up the hill but it wouldn’t shift.  This is most distressing when you have already made the mental leap to a lower gear and it is the first time in memory I debated getting off and pushing rather than risk falling over with my feet frozen to their pedals.

I made it to the top of the hill and, knowing the rest of the climb that was waiting for me, I persuaded the chain onto the granny ring and climbed the last kilometer home.  I managed to get the Rescue Bike up onto it’s perch before making a bee-line for a hot shower.  My fingers howled in protest but my feet made no complaint at all, at first.  Without warning, my toes started signalling that they’d been run over by a truck, smashed with a hammer and stubbed against a table at running speed.  The pain was enormous.  I was paying the price for ignoring them when they signaled their increasing displeasure and finally their resignation during the ride.  Despite growing up and spending my I don’t need a toque just because it’s -30C years in a place that has an average winter temperature of -30 degrees, I don’t believe my toes have ever been that cold – they’ve certainly never shared their anger with such clarity before.  It was an excruciating 5 or 6 minutes before they started to calm down.

It’s now 12 hours since I embarked on my frozen adventure and I’ve recovered nicely.  My muddy clothes have all been washed and hang-drying in anticipation of another outing.  If it wasn’t for scheduling conflicts, I would be gearing up for a 2nd round as we speak.  Clearly I haven’t learned anything.

Do you see what happens when you say never?  It’s makes you crazy.