Summertime

And the trees are dripping.

When the wind woke me this morning, slapping the blinds against the window frame, I knew. Such turbulence is a sure sign of a dense marine layer whipping over the Santa Cruz Mountains, and that is where our ride was headed. Time to bundle up.

As we climbed, the windshield wipers of approaching vehicles were running intermittently. For the droplets on my glasses, there was no such amenity. On the edges, the fog roils like steam rising from a pot of boiling water. [Except, of course, that the fog is cold.] In the midst of it, tiny droplets prick your face and ping off your jacket. In the thick of it, big drops condense from the towering trees and pelt you like rain.

There was little point to the sunscreen I applied, out of habit. The occasional fuzzy shadow cast by the weak light was an ironic contrast to the sharp contours I saw by the light of last weekend's full moon, deep in an isolated valley.

It was a beautiful ride nonetheless, despite wishing for long-fingered gloves and toe covers. Thirty-eight miles with about 3100 feet of climbing—the incentive, to stay warm.