What Rain?

 

Another Typical Ride (photo by Pete Gustafson)

17 May 2025

Janice would like a word.

That's what I was thinking as we passed puddles filling with raindrops.

While the Premeds have been over in Italy, climbing 8-mile hills and lord knows what else (I haven't checked in on social media since my last blog post), we've been back here under another week-long raincloud. I'm not complaining. We've been in a drought since last summer.

Saturday was looking like another washout, so I listed a hilly ride for Sunday. Then Tom, who looks at far more optimistic forecasts than I do ("NOAA is Chicken Little," he says), was confident we could get a ride in on Saturday after all. 

He sent us the 55-mile route from Bordentown to Vincentown. When I went to bed on Friday night, NOAA was still telling me there was a 40-something percent chance of rain, while AccuWeather had it down in the 30s. When my alarm went off on Saturday morning, it was plenty light out, so I suited up and drove down.

We were something like ten miles into the ride when, under a canopy of trees, Pete felt a few drops. "Probably the wind on the leaves," I said.

But no. As soon as we got out into the open, we felt the rain for real, a light shower. I asked Pete, "What are we going to do about the rain?"

He said, "What rain?"

It let up soon after that.

Then we rode into another shower. This time it lasted. At an intersection, I asked Tom, "What are we going to do about the rain?"

He said, "What rain?" It was going to clear out anyway, he said, so there was no point in turning back.

Janice would like a word.

I watched the roadside puddles speckled with raindrops. The asphalt was wet now too, giving us all rooster tails. It was the dirty sort of rain, the kind that splashes filth from the toes to the knees, the kind that necessitates a thorough hose-down and chain-cleaning at the end of the ride.

"I just cleaned my chain last night," I said as we waited for a light to change.

"So this is your fault," JackH said (or was it Pete or Rickety?).

As we went east around Mirror Lake in Browns Mills, we slowed for a family of geese making their way toward the water. We looped around to the other side and met the geese again. Swimming is faster, obviously. To the north, the sky was clearing. Where we were was still drizzling.

Eventually, the sky overhead cleared. At 35 miles, we stopped at a park to use a porta-potty before crossing the road to one of the few Wawas that hasn't been renovated. My clothes were sticking to me. "I can't tell if it's sweat or rain," I said. 

"It's all the water splashing back from the road," Tom said. True that. We were covered in grit. Rickety, Pete, and JackH had, for some reason, chosen white jerseys. Perhaps they'd had more faith in Tom's optimism than either Tom or I had. 

There was a slight tailwind on the way back. Now that the sun was out, we were drying out.

Then we encountered the puddle on (I think) Issac Budd Road. 

This was no ordinary puddle. It was an inland sea that stretched across the road. I could still see the double yellow line, so it wasn't that deep.

"Jack, you go first," Tom said.

I followed right behind him, aiming towards the center. The water was warm, and deeper than it looked. It was enough to soak my feet and give Janice an undercarriage bath. "That felt kinda good," I said to Jack when we got out of it. He agreed.

Janice got a real cleaning at home, Chain Pig, hose, and all. 

This was the longest flat ride I've done this year. My back isn't used to, or happy with, holding one position for so long. I had to stand on my pedals to stretch while we were moving. I might not have the spine for any more centuries. 

Tomorrow I'm leading the hilly ride I'd listed before Saturday's forecast got better. I'll be in the back. As usual.