As you've heard by now, Hurricane Ian trashed parts of Florida's west coast and did a lot of damage elsewhere. Here in New York, we escaped the vice of his grip, but his sleeve brushed us, if you will. So, while no part of Long Island resembles Sanibel Island, we were tossed and drenched as if we were passengers on an unstable ship.
Fortunately for us, there wasn't much damage and I didn't hear about any power outages. But, from Friday evening through this morning, enough fell from the sky, and the wind was strong to keep me off my bike for the weekend.
I think the last time I went a whole weekend without riding at this time of year was when I was "doored" two years ago. At least I had an excuse then: thirty stitches and a torn muscle. I suppose that to someone who's not a dedicated cyclist, I had an excuse this weekend. I don't mind wind or rain, up to a point. If precipitation turns into a cataract and I can't see more than a few bike lengths in front of me, or if I can barely make headway against the wind, I won't ride unless I must.
Even if I had an "excuse," I feel like a bit of a wimp. But, I tell myself, I'll ride again and I didn't see carbon lycra crowd in the bike lane outside my apartment. Not that I think they're any standard of a "dedicated cyclist," but I feel somehow vindicated. They'll ride, and I'll ride. I like to think that even if I don't have a lot of years left, I expect to continue riding, however slowly, long after they've moved on to other things. And I was cycling before they were born.
All right, you didn't read this to hear me being smug and self-righteous. So I'll leave you with something I saw while riding home late Thursday, before Ian came knocking.
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