Today’s commute — at both ends of the day — was marked by rain, an abundance of puddles and taxi drivers who deliberately went out of their way to make sure I got splashed.
When I initially set off this morning it wasn’t raining. But by the time I’d got about half way it was bucketing down. It was pouring off my helmet visor like Niagara Falls. I could feel it seeping through my gloves and my fleecey tights.
When I got to George Street, which leads to Parliament Square, I was pretty much wet all over. And then I rode through a river where a river shouldn’t be. It was a puddle — or should I say lake? — that I simply could not avoid cycling through. The ensuing back wash filled one of my shoes with icy cold water. Both of my legs got drenched up to the knee. I think I mouthed the word "fuck" and then I started to laugh. What else could I do?
It stopped raining not long after and I rode the rest of my route in relative dryness. As soon as I locked my bike up I took off my right shoe, tipped it up and poured out what seemed like a whole pint of water! I spent the rest of the day trying to dry my shoes and my clothes: I had all manner of cycling gear adorning the air vents and heaters at work! Anyone would think I was running a Chinese laundry not editing a magazine!
The ride home was also wet — and if that wasn’t enough it was dark and very windy. The good bit, if I can call it that, was the fact that for much of my ride I was the only cyclist on the road. This meant I only had to concentrate on the motorised traffic and the odd rogue pedestrian dashing across my path with inside-out umbrellas, and so I was able to travel quite quickly, pushing myself to get home as soon as I could — if only so I could thaw out under a scalding hot shower.