The Monsoon, or rainy season here in Tucson, part of the much larger Sonora Desert Region, is a mysterious, powerful, and natural force—beautiful and temperamental—driven by the Sun and the Ocean.
I only spend about two hours out-of-doors here in the desert when I’m biking during the week, yet I’ve come to know the sky over Old Mexico, and the Winds sweeping my commute route intimately. Riding my bike on the ridges of the Catalina Mountain Range, the view of the world is big—and what happens is big.
What happens in the Ocean affects the temperature and the Wind across the continent—and Yours on his bicycle, Gentle Reader of This Blog.
Monday, for some reason, the Sun was like a Death Ray. It was 104 outside. But suddenly the Monsoon was back, and in a big way—just a huge sheet of grey marching up from Mexico. When that force hit the blazing air—boy oh boy was there fury.
For my almost un-noticed part in this drama, I hung low in the drops, as if praying to be spared. The headwinds and crosswinds pushed and shoved me sometimes violently. I drank every last drop of water I carried.
At the car I was exhausted, and for a moment I paused—my skin, the steel of the bike, and the pavement beneath me were burning hot. You could never fell so alive, mes amis, than to ride in fire!
AC trip in the car for the 9 miles driving home, and to cool down were my reward for the end of the day. Cheers! Bruce
I only spend about two hours out-of-doors here in the desert when I’m biking during the week, yet I’ve come to know the sky over Old Mexico, and the Winds sweeping my commute route intimately. Riding my bike on the ridges of the Catalina Mountain Range, the view of the world is big—and what happens is big.
What happens in the Ocean affects the temperature and the Wind across the continent—and Yours on his bicycle, Gentle Reader of This Blog.
Monday, for some reason, the Sun was like a Death Ray. It was 104 outside. But suddenly the Monsoon was back, and in a big way—just a huge sheet of grey marching up from Mexico. When that force hit the blazing air—boy oh boy was there fury.
For my almost un-noticed part in this drama, I hung low in the drops, as if praying to be spared. The headwinds and crosswinds pushed and shoved me sometimes violently. I drank every last drop of water I carried.
At the car I was exhausted, and for a moment I paused—my skin, the steel of the bike, and the pavement beneath me were burning hot. You could never fell so alive, mes amis, than to ride in fire!
AC trip in the car for the 9 miles driving home, and to cool down were my reward for the end of the day. Cheers! Bruce
1 comment:
Burn baby burn. It was 109 on the way to the bus at 5:30 yesterday. The cyclists up here out in that heat always give a knowing smile and a wave at each other. Kind of like some kind of brotherhood.
Post a Comment