Shiver Me Timbers!

I was so thrilled to have written yesterday's blog entry at least in part from the "open road" (i.e., about 4 miles away from where I hang my hat and park the scooter) that I was hell bent on doing it again today.  And why not?  The temperature on the deck was 60°F under a cloudy sky with a 0% chance of precipitation.  A light jacket over my flannel shirt with a tee shirt underneath and a good pair of gloves, and I'd be warm enough to head to the state park that was my intended blogging destination.  It was a brisk ride and when I got to the lake from which I planned to type these very words (or some similar other words) I headed to a lakeside picnic table with my writing gear and started in on my apple while watching a bunch of ducks playing in the water.  A beautiful day in spite of cloudy but non-threatening skies.  God was in His heaven and all was right with my ride.

Before the apple was half eaten, I couldn't feel the tips of my fingers.  The wind, while not necessarily howling was making itself heard and felt, and it's a factor that a glance at the thermometer doesn't take into account.  I really should have known that setting up camp alongside a lake on an autumn day that isn't sunny wouldn't be such a hot idea, but when it comes to deciding when to go riding and what to wear, I tend to be an idiot.  Now I don't mind when my idiocy shows when I remark, "I'm an idiot," and hear a sweet voice ask sweetly, "Yeah, but whose idiot are you?" to which I get to reply, "Yours!" but when I'm alone and have to admit sheepishly to myself that I made another bonehead move, it tends not to have that cutesy ending.

Now in spite of my apple being half polished off and my fingers freezing I still planned to get out the stuff and start writing what you'd be reading here.  On the second half of that apple, though, thoughts of this old computer chair at home were starting to sound pretty darned good.  Truth be told, I was starting to wonder how I was going to get my sorry ass home with at least a little feeling left in my fingers. 

Pity the ducks in that cold water, but they didn't seem to mind the chill in the least as they frolicked about and made raucous noises like Burgess Meredith playing the role of the Penguin on the old Batman series that I loved as a kid.  I'd worn a pair of gloves that I was fairly certain would get my hands back to being toasty with real fur of some kind on the inside and leather on the outside.  They'd been my dad's and Mom tells me that he already had them when they got married in '56, but sentimentality aside, they failed miserably at getting my fingertips any warmer when I donned them for the ride back, and by the time I got home I swore I was going to have frostbite with which to contend.

What might I have written from the lake had things gone differently and I hadn't given in to the cold to the core feeling in my fingertips?  I truly don't know, but something would have come to mind.  Instead, however, I'm left with this narrative of yet another poor choice in riding apparel.  If I had a buck for every time I went out for a ride only to end up beginning a thought with, "Gee, I should have worn...," I'd be going out for a first rate lobster dinner this evening.

 

To salvage the ride, though, when I got back to the house and rode down the alleyway to the backyard I saw at the far end of the yard the two feral kitties that I'd scared earlier when I came out of the house like a bull elephant and headed to the scooter.  They sat there calmly as I parked the bike, dismounted, and drew out the camera slowly, and I knew I had just the perfect leftover chicken thigh in the fridge to share with them.  They warmed my heart at least, though they did nothing for my fingers.