On Saturday, Husband and I went to Dunedin to catch up with friends. The weather forecast threatened thunder and lightning. In other words: ideal biking weather, according to Husband’s criteria.
Just beyond Palmerston, the first drop of rain smashed into my visor. Although our jackets are ‘weather-proof’ (whatever that means, it doesn’t appear to include protection against heat), our kevlar jeans are only gravel-proof. We stopped to pull on over-trousers.
Ten kilometres on, I was experiencing sound effects similar to being kicked by a herd of rhino in a kettle drum. The hailstones were the size of pingpong balls – although rather more substantial. Husband pulled into a bus-stop, but got bored after about ten seconds.
“Come on, I think it’s easing up,” he said.
“Easing up? I can’t see the <expletive deleted> ROAD.”
So much for the scenic route; although in fairness, although it seemed like longer, we probably only had about twenty minutes of inclemence.
Our bike gear was quite effective. The main problem I had was with my motocross gloves, which were instantly soaked. By the time we reached Dunedin, my hands were frozen into claws.
I suggested this problem could be addressed by the purchase of rubber household gloves to wear on top. It is tremendous fun torturing Husband with this terrible threat; it is impossible to describe how aghast he looks when I tell him I plan to get pink ones.
In the end, MarkJ donated his leather gauntlets with total funk, so Husband will be spared that horrible fate. For now.