I awoke Sunday morning to the sound of the driving rain on the windows, buffeted by gusts of wind. I got up, made myself a double espresso, and called to the dogs for their walk. Smackimus, the mutt who embodies Rule #5 in everything he does, came bounding down the stairs. Beene, the lummoxy Great Dane, followed quite a distance behind, yawning and smacking her lips. I opened the front door and the three of us headed outside.  I made my way down the stairs and zipped up my jacket as both dogs followed. Smackimus slowed noticeably as we left the shelter of the front porch and stepped into the rain, and Beene stopped altogether.

After using all my skills of persuasion, I managed to get both the dogs to do their business, but it was a minimum-commitment operation; both dogs did what they needed to do and bolted back up the steps to the shelter of the front porch.

A great day for a ride, obviously.

We are a sick lot, those of us who find more pleasure in riding in bad weather than in good.  I have decided, however, to remove my fenders from the Rain Bike, as they do tend to detract from the considerable pleasure of feeling the spray from the road coat your body in Rule #9; the fenders definitely diminish the indulgence in the rain, and, generally, the volume of Suck that the weather is dispensing on your person. Fenders or not, the ride still merited camera-phone self-portraits, Dan O-style.

Oh, and – Merckx help us all – I think Rule #9 might actually be a Garbage Song.

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