The rain may not be pissing but the boys are

This morning I got hot, steamy and wet.

Eugh.

I got fully tooled up ready for the promised downpour: waterproof jacket in bright yellow; waterproof socks; shorts because legs dry quicker than fabric; positive mental attitude.

I was prepared, I was ready ... and it didn't bloody rain. Don't get me wrong, there was spittage and slight weeing of water onto my helmet but it wasn't real rain. So false was it that I had to take off my jacket two miles in because I was so hot. My feet got sweaty and I got all red. I was reduced to a pootling speed so as not to overheat. At the same time however, my bottom got increasingly sodden as I splashed through the puddles left by the proper rain that came down early this morning.

The lack of pissing from the sky was more than made up for by the pissing that went on last night however. More specifically, the pissing contests...

I was boxed in twice by boys racing at lights. To their credit they had stopped for them but the revving of engines was replaced by meaningful but polite middle-class looks and the clipping in of SPDs. As the light went amber there was knashing of teeth and furious peddling. Muscles were tested and lycra strained. Panniers bounced madly as potholes were hit and the rattle of mudguards was something to behold.

Half a mile later they all looked knackered when I went past them.