Riding your bike in the wind is like getting kicked in the nuts, standing up and asking for another, please ma’am thank you very much.  It’s like Gaia is a total maniacal and vengeful older sister that pokes and prods at you.  She sticks a finger up her nose, retrieves a booger and moves it centimeters from your mouth saying, “I’m not touching you, I’m not touching you…”

I want to scream, to thrash about and shake my fist at the sky, cursing the “completely innane” and “scientifically backed natural phenomenon” for being the spiteful asshole that it is, but I know that would only make me look insane.  Of course the earth doesn’t hate me, of course it’s not trying to push me down or make me really, really, REALLY upset with it, but damn is it good at it.

Riding your bike through the wind is like getting a speeding ticket, getting silently angry at yourself and the cop who gave you the ticket, taking a deep breath, and easing your way back into the roadway only to be obliterated by a semi-truck traveling at 75 mph.

There’s no way to get around it either: rain you can wear a jacket.  Heat you can shed clothing or drink wather.  Ice/snow you can stay inside, not feel about being a lazy putz and wear the same clothes for 48 hours (don’t judge me).

But wind – WIND! – there’s literally nothing you can do about it, save for perforating a lot of holes in you body, but that has the unfortunate consequence of killing you.

Riding your bike on a windy day is like finishing a 30 page report, only to have your computer shutdown, the file not save, then the laptop catches on fire and burns down your entire household, and when the firefighters survey the scene they somehow link it to arson and arrest you for insurance fraud and you spend the next three years in prison.

I’d rather inflate four car tires using only my lungs.

I’d rather substitute for a class where the children have all been replaced with poop flinging monkeys.

I’d rather trim an entire football field down to regulation length using only a pair of dull, rusted Fisher Price safety scissors.

Now that I think of it, I’d rather just walk.