It's Here
Today was the first day that my bike commute home from Bothell (well, actually just to the UW-Seattle, where I’m taking a class Monday nights) was like I expect it’s going to be pretty much for the next five months: chilly, wet, and dark…and not really all that bad.
My gear got pretty soaked and the waterlogged arms of my rain jacket leaked all over my long-sleeve wool shirt, but the foul weather kept the riff-raff of the Burke-Gilman trail, which made for pleasant, if somewhat lonely riding.
Plus, the millions of shades of gray in the sky set off the muted colors of the last few remaining leaves on the trees ever so poignantly; it makes for such a delicious flavor of melancholy that it’s all I can do to not start writing poetry—a strange bit of synchronicity since I was reading something in Kierkegaard today where he talks about how the poet has to embrace pain so he will have something to wax poetic about.
Which I guess is sort of what we in the Northwest will be experiencing until next July or so rolls around: all the rain will make us that much more introspective and thoughtful—that is, until it doesn’t, probably around early December at the latest.
The main thing, I think, is not to get defeated by the endless precipitation; last night, I was contemplating a ride of less than a mile to the store to pick up a much-needed six-pack; I looked out the window and seeing sheets of rain illuminated by the streetlamp, decided against it. But then, I thought, “No! I’m not made of salt! I won’t melt!” and so hopped on the 420 bike and pedaled to the store.
And the thing is, it wasn’t so bad at all; I got a little wet, but it wasn't nearly at lousy outside as it looked. And I had that six-pack to keep me company while I dried.
My gear got pretty soaked and the waterlogged arms of my rain jacket leaked all over my long-sleeve wool shirt, but the foul weather kept the riff-raff of the Burke-Gilman trail, which made for pleasant, if somewhat lonely riding.
Plus, the millions of shades of gray in the sky set off the muted colors of the last few remaining leaves on the trees ever so poignantly; it makes for such a delicious flavor of melancholy that it’s all I can do to not start writing poetry—a strange bit of synchronicity since I was reading something in Kierkegaard today where he talks about how the poet has to embrace pain so he will have something to wax poetic about.
Which I guess is sort of what we in the Northwest will be experiencing until next July or so rolls around: all the rain will make us that much more introspective and thoughtful—that is, until it doesn’t, probably around early December at the latest.
The main thing, I think, is not to get defeated by the endless precipitation; last night, I was contemplating a ride of less than a mile to the store to pick up a much-needed six-pack; I looked out the window and seeing sheets of rain illuminated by the streetlamp, decided against it. But then, I thought, “No! I’m not made of salt! I won’t melt!” and so hopped on the 420 bike and pedaled to the store.
And the thing is, it wasn’t so bad at all; I got a little wet, but it wasn't nearly at lousy outside as it looked. And I had that six-pack to keep me company while I dried.
posted by Professor Dave at 9:07 PM
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