73 Day 6 Waverly to Independence: I can stand the rain

Oh no, the penultimate day!

Norman Note: No pictures. It was too rainy to get the phones out. Enjoy the prose. 

I woke up early in the morning on Friday to the sound of a storm and heavy rain rolling through Waverly. "Oh, dear, Lord, please can we just sleep in for a bit?" I prayed. It's one thing to ride in the rain, but it's another thing to start a ride in the rain. It's one thing to start a ride in the rain, it's another to have to break camp in the rain. If we could just snooze a bit more. I was just so tired. 

Eventually, the rain slowed, the beavers--those great aquatic rodents--emerged from tents and packed up quickly and efficiently. It wasn't raining when we hit the road, well, it was just raining a bit. I grabbed my Westcomb jacket and stuffed it into my jersey pocket. I noticed that neither Masinga nor Too Much had jackets. Brave souls. I have a super fancy rain jacket, but it's not even up the task of keeping me dry on the bike, but it does provide a bit of extra warmth, which I appreciate when I am shivering in some church basement or beer ghetto.

We navigated the wet and busy streets through Waverly and joined the ragby. It was a quick ride to the town of Bremer, just 6.5, but the the time we arrived it was straight up raining. F.M.D. I put my jacket on and took shelter under the EZ-Up of a townie who was selling homemade granola bars--they were good, so I bought two and scarfed them both down while watching the rain. 

And then, of course, some douche bag with a recumbent wheeled his bike under the tent, put the kick stand down, and bought a granola bar. Really. Really? This is the exact same issue as the sun versus shade. Does your bike really need to be out of the rain? I mean, you have to ride it another 60 fucking miles. Wouldn't it be nice if a sentient being could be dry for a bit?! Maybe we can pass some Ragby Ordinances about this "situation," start passing out tickets? 

As I was simmering with fury and considering how to "accidentally" bump the bike over while it's owner wandered away, I looked up and noticed Masinga. She was soaked, poor thing. She came over and joined us under the tent. Then I looked up and noticed Too Much. Now, he was clad rain coat and hooded. I looked at Masinga's face. Crestfallen is the word I would use to describe it. Two jacketless beavers suffering in solidarity is one thing. One jacketless beaver suffering alone is so tragic. 

Poor Masinga. These are the mornings that are just so hard on virgins. It's Friday. It's been a long fucking week. There are still 60 miles to ride, and another hilly day tomorrow. You're exhausted and sleep deprived and dehydrated, and now, you're fucking wet and cold. There's nothing anyone can say to make it any better. You've just got to dig deep, chuckle at the humor of the ragby gods, and ride on, but that is hard to do when it's your first time. On the positive side, sometimes, the ragby gods will accept the sacrifice of a virgin in exchange for improved weather, so we had that going for us. 

When the bar in Bremer didn't materialize, and the rain didn't seem to be letting up, we reluctantly trudged back to the bikes and embarked for Tripoli. I don't remember much of this stretch of ride. Just glimpses of from under my hood of the gray clouds scudding across the sky. Spray of water kicking up from tires. I rode near Steven and Fall Out Boy (FOB) but we mainly rode in silence, hunkered in our own little bubble of woe as thunder boomed out of the north. I wished for the security and fenders of my MoTro and thought about the day the Tiger and I rode along the canals of Flanders into Antwerp. It was kind of like that, kind of. 

Eventually we turned north. The roads took a precipitous decline in quality and we bumped and straggled into the town of Tripoli, where our fortunes and the weather would take a turn.