There was no rain in the forecast. So naturally, there was a downpour at 2 a.m.
I had not attached the rainfly to my tent. I also didn’t know how to attach the rainfly to my tent.
It was comical, actually. Wet and frustrating, but comical. The gods, vexed by the mere mortal who dared challenge them by failing to set up his tent at least once before setting out, so sent an unexpected deluge to balance the karmic scales. They must’ve laughed their asses off.
I managed to get the fly on, but not before there was a substantial amount of water sloshing around in the tent. It pooled down on the left front side, where my feet rested. I apparently didn’t even pitch the stupid tent on level ground, a fortuitous mistake, all things considered, and I was able to skoosh up the opposite side where it was merely damp.
The rain fell for two hours, violently at times. In my haste, brainfog, and unfamiliarity, I didn’t secure the fly on properly, allowing more water in here and there. By morning, everything was soaked.
They call these first bicycle adventures shake-out rides for a reason, right? You’re supposed to find what works, what doesn’t, and change things up for your real ride. You’re maybe not supposed to be quite as dumb, though.
But undeterred, soggy, and largely sleepless, I packed up the next morning for the return trip home with a list of mistakes and remedies and plenty of time on the bike to reconsider the choices I made that got me here. I was uncharacteristically calm about the whole escapade, chalking it up to inexperience and just plain stupidity. There was nothing to be upset about. I was dumb, punished for it, and let’s just move on.
Unfortunately, the rain did nothing to alleviate the oppressive humidity, which hovered in the upper 80th percentile. This meant my clothes would never dry today. I’d remain soaked for another 50 miles in a swamp-like elixer of sweat and old rainwater. I could practically feel the mold growing on me.
After 15 or so miles, I came upon the bridge construction that cut off my trail of choice. Yesterday, I was not going to let that stop me from continuing along my planned route, and I thought myself quite clever for finding a way around it. But after the punishing rain that I for certain caused with my moxy, it is now nothing but mud, six inches deep if it were a centimeter.
It’s astounding how heavy a bike, already loaded with far too much stuff, can feel when it’s caked with fresh mud that sucks your feet to the Earth’s core with every step. And now I have to somehow push myself and that bike uphill. I think the gods were pissing themselves at this point.
Roll forward, roll back. Push and push again. Scrape three inches of mud from my tires. Inch forward again. Retrieve shoe stolen by the mud. Push, grunt, sweat. It was desperately slow going. Another lesson learned.
I rode another 35 miles, with a fresh layer of mud from head to toe, adding new filth to the growing bacterial playground in my shirt that now sucked to my chest like it was trying to graft itself to my skin.
I sat in the driver’s seat of my car when I finally arrived, pointing every air conditioning vent directly at me. I was filthy, stinky, exhausted, thirsty.
I couldn’t wait to do it again. Maybe a little smarter this time, though.
After that first experience, I went on two more overnight shake-out rides, each better than the last. And more enjoyable because of it. And no freaking mud.
I leave for my 350-mile ride in three days. I know I’m not completely ready. No one ever really is, from what I gather. But I know how to put the rainfly on my tent, and I know self-fashioned detours are not my forte.
I think I’ll be okay.