For England James?

1.10.10 (Happy 'Tober!)

Weston-Super-Mare, England

Alright, it is official: Sean and I are the Bringers of Rain and All Things Precipitation. Within a day of arriving in a new country, it has drizzled, rained, stormed, or absolutely lions-and-wolves poured. In Ireland, everywhere we went the first two weeks people we'd meet would tell us, "You came at the wrong time! Last week was excellent weather! I got a rash from being out in the sun even." But we were too busy tying umbrellas to our helmets to pay it any notice. Our brief foray into Northern Ireland was cold, gray, and wet, with people acting like the Wicked Witch and avoiding the weather at all costs. Again, we were too absorbed with our tea and scones to catch any of these signs. Upon arrival into Wales, the captain announced dreary skies and damp, falling rain (Is there any other kind? Yes: It's purple.). For the final time, we were too caught up in the two-quid cocktails to take any notice of the pattern developing. But after we've had our proper rest following two days of brutal riding, we have at last realized our powers. We bring the rain, and we bring it hard. Even Bob Dylan knew (and I'm paraphrasing here): A hard rain's a-gonna fall means Bob and Sean are around.

I say this because the final piece of the puzzle has fallen into place. Some forty minutes after we pedaled across the Old Severns Bridge from Wales into England, the skies darkened and a light drizzle began to fall. Thankfully, as we were leaving Bristol down the final stretch to our destination, it all started to clear up. But all rays of sunshine have their deadly UV rays, as Pep-Pep always said, and the Sun's mighty brightness nearly blinded us, reflecting off the wet pavement-turned-glass as we climbed west out of the city. More, last night and into the early evening of today, the rain hammered the roof of Paul and Deb's and the forest next to the city, turning the silence into a soothing drone of pitter-patters and the dust into mud. But as I sit here writing next to an English window (pretty similar to American ones, except for the bricks), the sky has begun to clear yet again, still following the inevitable cycle of dark and light, wet and dry, that we have grown up with but seriously questioned during our stay in Ireland.

Where is here? And what did I have to do to get here? Yesterday was our most difficult and impressive day of riding so far, piggy backing on our second best effort of the trip. The climbs yesterday were much less severe than that first day in Wales, but the cities were terribly congested and the road seemed to stretch on forever, bringing us closer but never bringing us there.

Although we were mainly intent on reaching Paul and Deb's as quickly as possible, we were able to see a few sights that piqued our interest. The road took us into Cardiff Bay, which is quite lovely and showcases a number of places and scenes from Doctor Who, one of Sean's absolutely favorite shows (or at least an honorable mention).

The next city, Newport, is hosting the Ryder Cup this weekend, though it has been postponed for the moment due to (gasp!) rain.

Separating England and Wales is the mighty Severn River, which we crossed on a two-mile bridge that shook as the trucks passed by.

Speaking of bridges, we rode beneath the Clifton Suspension Bridge in Bristol, which is known for its massive suicide rate. Naturally, we kept our umbrellas mounted on the helmets for this portion. (Is this too morbid? Not for this web blog.)

But at long last, we made it, happy and salty. So, so salty. To prove how salty, and to fulfill a request from a longtime friend, first-time reader, I've included a lovely snapshot. Cheers!