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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.

Upon our return on Sunday, we found out that we had ridden through a tornado which was  so terrifying, it frightened Mr and Mrs McLeod’s cat


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