It's in the Autumn Rain

We've circled back to that time of year.  The summer has gone away and we're left with grey, cold days that are beginning later and ending earlier.  The short sleeve jerseys are packed away in their bin, replaced by long sleeves and jackets.  The sunglasses have been replaced by clear ones, the "ladies" safety glasses picked up at the hardware store back in Akron.  The season didn't pause at arm warmers, but barreled on ahead right to the time of overshoes, full fingered gloves, and balaclavas.  You need a headlight in the morning and one in the early evenings.  The sun will be back sometime in May.  Rain, unceasing grey rain, has become synonymous with these days.  A day without it can barely be recalled.

There's nothing quite like riding a bicycle in the rain on a cold autumn day.  The headwinds in the river valley are so strong, going up hill feels like an exercise in futility.  Going down feels like going up backwards.  Everything is quiet, except the "tap tap tap" of rain drops on your helmet and the brim of your cap, pulled down to keep the water out of your eyes.

The coldness starts at the tips of your ears, unwisely left exposed to the elements.  It then creeps to the knees and toes, sometimes the finger tips if the rain is so heavy it soaks through the gloves.   That familiar taste in the back of the throat appears, the one that always kicks in in this kind of weather that you remember so vividly from grade school gym class.  Suddenly, you're not riding your bicycle anymore.  You're running "The Mile" on a cold October day to meet your Presidential Fitness requirements.  You hated running that stupid mile in your gym uniform outside over by the water tower.  You chuckle to yourself, "Those were the days."  The biggest concern in life was running a mile.

Before long you hear that gritty, grinding sound in the chain as it rolls over the cogs.  There's trail gunk in the chain.  Like all rain rides, this one is going to mean some time in the shop afterwards scrubbing the drive train.  There's nothing for it.  If you want to get anywhere when Luxembourg's autumn arrives, you'll be getting there in the rain.  You'll also be riding in the fog.

The fog.  Oh the fog!  It rolls down from the Ardennes with such foreboding and will cling to the ground with such ferocity that it must be something more than fog.  It is a presence, very nearly alive.  It hangs over hill tops; it sits unmoving in valleys and on the winding, twisting roads.  It hides church steeples and castle towers, erasing them from the landscape.  You don't know you've arrived in a town until the corner of a house looms out of the greyness, or a parked car suddenly appears in front of you.  The sound in the fog is beyond bizarre.  There isn't any.  Voices, footsteps, even the sounds of automobile engines are all muffled, as if you are hearing them from underwater.  You very nearly are.  Water clings to everything.  Every blade of grass, fence wire, and dying wildflower is covered in the tiny clear jewels that compose this fog.

This time of year is perfect.  It belongs only to the people who venture outside their homes, shops, and cafes.  There are few of us.  Gone are the cycle tourists from Germany and the Netherlands.  We'll see them again when the sun returns.  We'll happily pass each other with a friendly "Hallo!" next summer.  Gone are the hobbyists.  Their 4,000€ Treks, Giants, and Focuses are hanging on hooks in garages or sitting in trainers or leaning against walls by rollers where they will remain until Spring.  The Nordic Walkers are gone too, though I think they're missing out.  Hiking in the pouring rain or in fog so thick you "could cut it with a knife" is an experience not to be missed.  You only see the same people now.  You know each other, even if you don't speak.  You recognize their pedal stroke ahead.  Both of you look miserable, but you're loving every minute.  Neither of you are particularly quick on the bike, loaded down with all-weather panniers and rain gear.  Neither of you warranted an acknowledgement from all those roadie hobbyists.  But, you're still here.  They aren't.  It's a point of honor, and you both know it.

When these days are gone, replaced by the dark bleakness of winter, I will miss them.  I will miss the spicy smell of dead leaves on the trail.  I will miss those flash downpours that blot out the world around me.   I will miss those dark looming clouds that come pouring in from France every afternoon. I will miss the birds and black squirrels chattering to each other as they pick up the fallen nuts.  I will miss the cows who always come to the fence when I pass.  It is a perfect time of year that only comes once.

But, for now the autumn rain remains.  I believe that when you're on a bike you'll discover that there's magic and beauty in that rain.