Après moi, le déluge

I was awake and up at 5 a.m., and by 7, it wasn't raining. So, since I'm behind on my daily quota of miles (a paltry total of 3 since March 1), I decided to head out for a quick 15 or so on the Tour de Trash. Wind from the south was muscular, and the sky had plenty of clouds, but nothing dire-looking, so riding north up to Rd. 29 was a literal breeze. A bit more strenuous once I turned east on the dump road, but the sun was shining through the clouds ahead of me, and I stopped several times to watch a couple of raptors hanging around the slough (a kite, I think, and what I hoped was an osprey but was probably just a redtail). Discussed the news of the day with a couple of young bovines . . .


and goggled at the swarm of gulls roiling above the landfill, giving it the appearance of an enormous disturbed anthill.


Then I looked in my rearview mirror . . .


OMG! Quick! Ride! Ride fast! You're still 7 miles from home!

I almost made it. If I lived east of the dump instead of west, I might have outrun it, but as I had to ride into that dark maw, I started getting wet about 2 miles from home. Luckily, the real downpour didn't start until I was safely in the house. (I tried to get a picture of that, too, but it's hard to take a photo of rain.) (It's pouring again—hard— as I write this. 9 hours later.) So I got my 14 miles, getting only a little wet, and even survived being chased by a couple of dogs—naturally, I was riding into the teeth of the wind at that point and wasn't able to outrun the black one, who nipped my right shoe befoe heading back to his lair. I really do not like dogs.

Oh, and somewhere out there on the road, my cyclometer turned over 7,000 miles. I was so focused on getting home, I didn't even notice and so missed the fist-pumping opportunity.

It is dumping out there. Mr. Noah, call your office . . .