Is 'Toezen' a Word?
This little piggy went to Icebox Market...
"How shall I dress for this debacle in waiting?", I asked myself. Arctic outflow winds gusting to 90 kmh, and all that weathery jazz. Leg warmers and jacket! cried my fear of overheating, and thus it came to pass.
Met Muck at Wade about the same time I lost the feeling in my toes, proving my notion that 'booties is fer babies!' No pain, no problem, right? The feeling just returned to them now, all warm and fuzzy like.
Hugh joined us after the turn south on the way to the barn. His jersey was only slightly ruddier than my wind-blasted face, perhaps courtesy of the light emitted therefrom, otherwise I'd call it a draw.
A cadre of codgers rambled away from the barn and off towards Petra's, propelled by a wind that was never quite happy to help all that much. Perhaps it was disgustled with its role as free speed. A crow's-line to the cafe would have been ideal, but the roads maintained their zigzaggy attitude, half-enablers at best.
Some idiot named Bill thought sprinting over all the overpasses would be a good idea, you know, to 'wake up the legs' after a couple days of turpitudal sloth. Sensible readers know that grinding into a frigid nor'easter will do that for a fella, but 'I' am an ARTIST, and will suffer as I must. 'We build our own prisons' I was once told, so why not our own racks? 'Couple more twists, please, good sir hooded gaoler!'
Despite this equally twisted travelogue, we did indeed arrive intact at Petra's, enjoying java and banter aplenty. Bob and Muck wallowed in drywalled miseries of days gone by, eliciting my confession of carpentry gone awry that can't have helped matters much. 'Plumb, level, or square, or do not nail it!' exhorted the wizened crew boss, who then allowed the perpetration of nailings gone wrong by the sorry lot of us. My sincere apologies to lower mainland home owners whose rickety structures crashed to the ground of their own accord in a stiff breeze. I can't imagine any survived to this day, and if they have, seeking alternative shelter would be wise.
But I digress, and hyperbolize. Having chattered warmly at the cafe, we departed into the teeth-chattering gale, where Phil elected himself man of the hour. The hour record, judging by his willingness to flay himself alive at the front, bearing the brunt of the breeze and riding the bulk of the codgerly crew off his wheel without apparent effort. His quads have always hinted at greatness, and this morning, they brought it.
We formed small echelons in his wake, fighting to maintain position in the gusty malevolence pouring forth from the arctic. Muck stopped for a snack as we awaited the broken we'd left in our trail, declaring he'd catch up down the road. Some time later, he reappeared and refined his declaration to 'almost died trying' to catch the Phil train.
Most headed back at the barn or loaded bikes into vehicles, leaving Muck, Hugh, and me to grind out the denouement.
Today's victims: Dave, Art, Teresa, Ed, Joe, Bob, Phil, Muck, Hugh, et moi. Apologies to anyone I've left out due to the wind knocking the stuffings out of my cogitator.