Like This

It really does work like this: when the rain starts and you stop riding to put on your gear, as soon as you get it all on, the rain lets up. Then, if after a few blocks, you stop a gain to take everything off, just about the time you’re back in the saddle, it starts raining again.

This was my experience most of the way home from Renton this afternoon, where’d I’d gone in the morning for a community college teacher’s union president’s meeting; eventually, after dressing and undressing twice, I just gave it up and got soaked the last few miles.

Still, it was a pleasant ride, especially on the way back when a gusty tailwind allowed me to feel like I was a much stronger rider than I really am. Mashing up from Columbia City, I made great time, imagining that somehow, overnight, I’d gone from my usual slow and steady slog to something almost approaching not quite so slow and steady, but whenever I turned west, I was reminded that it was mother nature doing the pushing, not me.

I’m sure, of course, that my belief in the rain-inducing powers of gear-less riding, as well as my contention that wearing plastic makes the rain go away is, at least in part, a product of confirmation bias: since I already believe that’s what happens, I only notice the instances where it does. Today, though, was too freakily consistent with my pre-set expectations to completely write off the experience.

Near the airport in Renton, it began to pour; I pulled over, pulled on my rain pants, booties, and swapped my wool vest for the Gore-tex shell. And honest to God, by the time I’d gone a quarter mile fully-protected, the shower had completely stopped.

So, it did nothing to dissuade me from what I already believed when I took off all my stuff near Rainier Beach and it started pouring again by Seward Park.