Every Saturday morning, a few of us get together for a bike ride. This went on for years. Usually, we ride into another city, have breakfast, drink a lot of coffee, talk a lot, then take another route, and come home 25 or 30 miles later.
Weather is a problem.
On Friday evening, someone will look at the weather forecast for the next day and send an email to others.
“The wind is coming from the southwest, and the temperature is 25 degrees and up to 40 degrees. There is no rain or snow, but it is cloudy,” is the message I am sending this time.
One by one, the others respond.
“I'm riding,” says LP Fattire. “But the wind will be coming from the east, and it will be 22 degrees when we start and only rise to 35. Partly cloudy.”
“You're idiots!” “I'll come in my car and meet you for breakfast,” writes Sergio, a Brazilian who believes cycling in winter is wrong. We take the source into account – he also believes that January is the middle of summer, June is winter, and football is played with a ball Round.
He adds: “By the way, the wind will be northerly and the temperature will remain at 30 degrees throughout the morning, with fog.”
“I ride, too,” says Dr. Rothmeister. He added: “The southerly wind will blow, the temperature will reach 35 degrees, and there is a possibility of snowfall.”
The next morning we meet. The temperature is 16 degrees, there is no wind and the sun is shining.
At breakfast, LP Fattire, Dr., and I joined us. Routemeister, Sergio, and Dr. Ciderman, who drove there together.
“We really need to do something about these weather reports,” I say. “We all had different reports and they were all wrong.”
“I could have told you that,” Dr. Cederman says. “The report I saw was correct.”
“Why didn't you tell us last night?” says Dr. Rotmeister. “I would have worn warmer gloves.”
“I've been busy reorganizing my sock drawer,” Cederman says.
In the afternoon, I went out to my mailbox. Gary Cove Drop drives down the road and stops to chat. The wind was howling and it was starting to snow.
“How was your flight this morning?” Asked.
“Cold but fun,” I say. “We saw a lot of deer and sandhill cranes.”
“Nice—good!” He says. “I hope you're dressed warmly.”
“The weather reports were all wrong,” I said, knowing that Coffdrop was a weather forecasting company. “I blame you for my cold toes.”
“Hey, it's the weather,” he said, holding up his thumb and index finger, with a small gap between them. “The difference between an accurate prediction and a bad prediction depends on many factors, and one small change can cause the entire model to fail.”
“It's still your fault,” I say with a smile, taking off my hat and brushing the snow off the crown. “And while I'm doing that, I'm also blaming you for El Niño. And global warming.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” he says. “Blame the messenger.”
I put my hat back on, pull the covers down over my ears, and the Coffdrop goes off.
“It's all your fault!” I shout as he rolls up his window.
The next week, when I send out my cycling email, I look at seven different weather forecasts and average the results.
On paper, it looks like a lovely morning for a flight. it's not like that.
Then, it takes me an hour to dry my clothes after being exposed to the rain.
I'll blame Koufdrup, but he's out of town.
He went to Arizona.
— Jim Whitehouse lives in Albion.
