I made a quick decision to switch from wool socks to synthetic socks this morning. My wool socks cover my ankles; my synthetic socks go up over my calves. I look like Ryan Zimmerman. Except his socks are red and mine are black. And he can turn Uncle Charlie into a frozen rope.
And speaking of freezing, my toes were. They didn't warm up until 3 pm. My calves were toasty though. Not that cold calves are ever a problem for me, especially since I quit dairy farming.
The ride to work had a highlight or two. A bald eagle at the Belle Haven nest mooned me. Well, he actually tail-feathered me. Normally, bald eagles face into the sun, toward the Mount Vernon Trail, at sunrise. This one was turned toward the west. Hence the bald eagle moon. (Sounds like a country rock version of Bell Bottom Blues.)
Near the airport I came upon a landscaping crew. One guy was walking on the left of the trail. The others were in a truck on the right side. As I approached, the truck turned to cross the trail in front of me. The left side guy didn't bother to tell the driver of the truck that I was coming. The truck stopped with a jerk.. Or should I say "abruptly" since the jerk wasn't actually in the truck? Aren't crews required to post a look out for cars when they are working on roads? They should do the same on trails, except for bikes and other trail users. (Why do I feel like Andy Rooney all of a sudden? I've been thinking a lot about shoes lately. Maybe that's it. Since I am parenthetically talking about Andy Rooney, I should take a moment to brag on the fact that I went to the same high school as he. So did Herman Melville. I don't often feel like Herman Melville. Whenever I see a whale, I throw up. Makes for lousy whaling excursions. Just ask Mrs. Rootchopper.)
On the northern flyover bridge just past the airport terminals I actually passed a cyclist. It was a woman wearing a parka and riding a CaBi. It still counts as a pass, doesn't it. (If I asked her out for coffee, would that be a double pass?) That's one in the win column. Better then Les Boulez. Speaking of Lez Boulez, you know you suck when Andre Blatche, a player you are paying $7 million NOT to play for you, mocks you in the morning papers.
The short bit of sidewalk is still out of commission on Lynn Street at the Rosslyn Circle of Certain Death. I suppose VDOT decided that it's been too long since a cyclist was carted off in an ambulance so they added an obstacle. Once they get a victim, they'll open the sidewalk again.
The ride home was like a George Carlin weatherman routine. DARK. The Mule was happy to chug along with a light tailwind. I stopped to take a picture of the gorgeous full moon low in the sky next to the Washington Monument. It was a calendar picture if ever I saw one. Then my AIPS kicked in. AIPS is acute inept photography syndrome. It flares up whenever I pick up a camera.
The ride home was pretty routine. The last mile of my homeward trek is on Collingwood Road, a two-lane, shoulderless road with hills just big enough to hide a bicycle. A minivan came up from behind me. A car was obviously coming from the opposite direction. The minivan passed me. The oncoming car had to slow to a crawl. He hit his horn. Thank you oncoming car.
Tomorrow I'm switching back to wool, I think. I synthetics were better, sheep would wear polyester.