The lazy, mildewed days of summer stretch future and past as far as one can see. The changeless gray-green light fades up in the morning and down in the evening. Time loses all meaning.
Finishing the cellist's rain bike did not bring us into bright sunshine.
In spite of the weather, a few dedicated riders and optimistic customers trickle through the shop. Our resident chipmunk darts across the sales floor like a hallucination. It prefers to spend time indoors, since it has the option.
Day after day of fixed-gear riding in the hills makes my legs as hard as a tree stump, and about as flexible. Once I warm up they can spin at ridiculous speeds on downhills for a short time. When I climb off the bike I discover they will only describe the circle of the pedal stroke. My back straightens reluctantly. Stretching is a survival need. No sun-warmed swooping down rolling hills.
It is what it is. It still beats driving. Meanwhile, remember the old saying: if you don't like the weather in New England, wait a month and a half.