Thursday, January 21, 2010
Mud, Flood, and the Washing Away of Ephermeral Things
When the weather forecast is something like this, predicting a record two inches of rain in one day, I feel no shame in driving the car to work. It's not really the slop or mud that concerns me; I enjoy those in the right circumstances. It's the preparation, both effort and time, that deters me. Following my midwestern male "don't let the weather dictate your travel plans" ingrained macho tendencies, I got out what passes for my rain gear, which is more like waterproof mountain jacket and pants, and thought about what would need wet lube (the chain) and some grease (the headset, wheels, bottom bracket) to enable deep water street commuting with a side order of mud. But I stopped when I got to the panniers and extra change of clothes. If I take the car today, all I require by way of preparation is an extra cup of coffee. So as I enjoy that extra cup just now, I'll also report that in this one case, I hate being right, or at least, the appearance of being right, which is all that matters since I am writing of the end of the "Flowing Overlapping Gesture" exhibit at the canal. This newly uncovered blog post indicates that the foamy structure was intended to float for a few days when they refilled the canal. I was surprised to see that the canal is already full again, which would appear to be sooner than was posted on the sign, anyway. With no sign of floating foam simulacra. In appearance only, it seems to me that the waves of storms running through our normally bone-dry valley may have accelerated the refilling, and prevented the post-gesture artwork floating. I have no evidence of that, though. My extra cup of coffee is dry now, too, and it's off to work in the two ton gas machine rather than the 25 pound steel velocipede. So, while I am not exactly happy or content with that, I can think of the car commute this morning as something like a submarine adventure. Ping, ping, ping. Possibly I will capture on video some meme-worthy stupid motorist law breakers crossing flooded washes. And on the bright side: I suppose the white amurs are back in their happy weed-eating homes, and I hear the mud calling my name. Get up. Go ride.