When I checked the weather this morning in the Globe, I knew my mission was assigned. I dreamed about taking the motorcycle to work today and Boston's paper of record confirmed my fate. The temperature was predicted to be above 50. Sweet, unexpected January goodness despite the concurrent promise of rain and high winds.
It was at least fifty degrees this morning and no active rain when I left the house. I wrestled my bike out of the mud that had formed overnight, but once on the street it was smooth sailing through an atmosphere that was gray but the opposite of blustery; the calm before the storm.
As luck would have it, I was tasked with a crosstown errand in the afternoon. By then the rain had picked up. The wind too. The Globe estimates wind speeds are reaching 30 mph. Perhaps. My little Ninja 250 can outrun it. The people I was supposed to meet offered to reschedule. "We don't want you getting wet."
No way, I replied. I've been itching to balance on two motorized wheels for more than a month. The worse the weather, the better the ride as long as the mercury is above freezing. I had to drive home anyway, why not make an adventure of it?
I arrived at my destination. "You must be soaked!" the women exclaimed. I agreed that my pants were wet, but from the elements rather than from fear. My jacket keeps me dry enough. "Doesn't the wind blow you around?" they asked. Not really. If I were on top of the Tobin Bridge, that would be another matter. On the streets of Dorchester, high wind is my friend; it blows the rain off my helmet's face shield so I don't have to worry about wiping it clear with the back of my thumb.
If it were fifty degrees every January day, I wouldn't kvetch about Boston winters as much as I do.