93 degrees
During the summer months, once I am out of bed I want to get on my bike and off to work as soon as possible. I ride toward the east and mountain sunrises seldom disappoint so I gladly adopt a more leisurely pace as I breathe the fresh morning air and take in the wonderful views. I can say that I don't miss the rush hour traffic that rolls along just a little later. Those morning rides are near stress free and infuse a calming perspective that lasts all day. But when the temperature doesn't even drop below 70, it really pays to get out before the sun's heat is ready to beat you up.
The afternoon ride is a different story. Riding through a concrete jungle, the sun's heat doesn't just hit you once, no the solar rays find a multiplicity of ways to sap your energy and slow you down. I emerge from the parking tunnel rolling and confident and as long as I am moving the wind on my face repels the debilitating heat. The quality of my entire ride can turn on what happens next. My course requires me to navigate through five blocks of the central city before I escape traffic signals that can force me to stop. When I am lucky the lights will all be green, but usually two of them will catch me on the red. Even on a hot summer day, my cold bottled water can keep me hydrated and comfortable up to a certain point.
Up to 92 degrees I can travel ten miles through the heat without much trouble. But something happens at 93 and above. When it's that hot and I see the first red light I know that this ride is going to tax me. As I pull to a stop the heat doesn't just come from above, I feel it from below. The reflected heat turns the street into a grill and I'm the main course. I feel the rising temperature from my feet and up through my exposed legs as I'm gradually cooked in a public display. It's all I can do when I look into the air conditioned cars to withstand the temptation to drop my bike, get to a downtown car dealership, buy a car (or maybe just a test-drive) to get home in comfort.
But I can will myself through the discomfort. My true nemesis is not the heat, rather it's the convergence of my sweat patterns and 93 degrees. I've determined that at 93 degrees whatever sweat I produce immediately evaporates, as long as I am moving faster than 15 miles per hour. However, the moment I stop, every pore in my body begins producing a liter of sweat every minute; even my eyes begin to sweat. That's when the heat beats me. That's when I don't like to ride. On those days the sun turns my body against itself and uses its own salts to blind my very eyes.
The afternoon ride is a different story. Riding through a concrete jungle, the sun's heat doesn't just hit you once, no the solar rays find a multiplicity of ways to sap your energy and slow you down. I emerge from the parking tunnel rolling and confident and as long as I am moving the wind on my face repels the debilitating heat. The quality of my entire ride can turn on what happens next. My course requires me to navigate through five blocks of the central city before I escape traffic signals that can force me to stop. When I am lucky the lights will all be green, but usually two of them will catch me on the red. Even on a hot summer day, my cold bottled water can keep me hydrated and comfortable up to a certain point.
Up to 92 degrees I can travel ten miles through the heat without much trouble. But something happens at 93 and above. When it's that hot and I see the first red light I know that this ride is going to tax me. As I pull to a stop the heat doesn't just come from above, I feel it from below. The reflected heat turns the street into a grill and I'm the main course. I feel the rising temperature from my feet and up through my exposed legs as I'm gradually cooked in a public display. It's all I can do when I look into the air conditioned cars to withstand the temptation to drop my bike, get to a downtown car dealership, buy a car (or maybe just a test-drive) to get home in comfort.
But I can will myself through the discomfort. My true nemesis is not the heat, rather it's the convergence of my sweat patterns and 93 degrees. I've determined that at 93 degrees whatever sweat I produce immediately evaporates, as long as I am moving faster than 15 miles per hour. However, the moment I stop, every pore in my body begins producing a liter of sweat every minute; even my eyes begin to sweat. That's when the heat beats me. That's when I don't like to ride. On those days the sun turns my body against itself and uses its own salts to blind my very eyes.
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