It’s been one of those weeks, an unholy convergence of deadlines for two magazines and consultation with a third, extra shifts in the VeloBarrel while management plays in the desert (Tour of Qatar), and some actual winter weather. Nothing like the folks back east or in New Mexico have been enduring, just a mild annoyance that makes outdoor cycling iffy.

I slipped out between chores this afternoon, but waited too long to get rolling — popcorn snow was peppering my cheeks within a few minutes and then it was a sort of half-assed sleety, slushy thing going on. I was prepared, kinda, sorta, jersey pockets stuffed with everything but full booties (just toe warmers), and stopped under a bridge to add a couple layers before forging ahead.

Alas, while most of me was OK with cycling cap, tuque, winter gloves, rain jacket, two long-sleeved jerseys and a long-sleeved polypro undershirt, neoprene knee warmers, wool socks and bibs, it was the lack of booties and fenders that did me in. I hate cold feet and a wet butt the way Caribou Barbie hates smart people. And I am not one of the smarties, because I have neoprene booties and three — three! — bikes with fenders.

So I slunk home through the icy puddles, muttering to myself. “Thank God I’m not a pro,” I thought. “I’d have to do this every day, times a thousand, and then take dope on top of it all, wondering which one of the boys on the bus would wind up being my Floyd Landis.”