I felt the change in temperature before I noticed either the change in the intensity of the light or the shadow sliding ahead of me on the road. July heat radiated from the Memphis asphalt like stink blooming from carrion. Call it late-ride delirium or chalk it up to first-time incomprehension, but I realized that the cloud scudding by several thousand feet above me shaved off the sharpest edges from the immoderate sun.
As relief ranks, this was a 3 on a 10 scale, but when the heat and humidity go 10 out of 10, any reduction arrives like a lost friend.
Despite legs tired enough to resist any big effort, I dug in to lift my pace. The cloud had drifted over me on a flat, when my pace hovered in that infernal summer zone, trapped between my reluctance to put out any more effort—which would generate more heat within me—and the desire to move faster and generate more convective cooling. Air so hot and humid does grow more tolerable the faster I move.
Mere seconds later I reached a hill. It was the sort of hill that no one gives any thought to at the beginning of a ride, but can feel like a mountain when on the rivet. I watched the cloud outstrip me, like some virtual pacer, the gap growing inches with each pedal stroke.
I considered looking over my shoulder to gauge just how big the cloud was. Rather than indulge folly, I got on with the business of limiting the rate at which that line sped away from me.
I grew up in the South, which is to say since childhood I’ve been encouraged to “stand in the shade” at every opportunity. I’d spent much of my excursion riding on tree-shaded bike paths. As the cliche reminds us, every little bit helps. Being a cyclist in the South requires a rider to strategize the whens and wheres for summer spins, and yet, I’d never calculated my speed for the specific reason of maximizing my time under a thunderhead.
Less than a mile ahead I was to turn right. Panic for the future is a luxury, but not for which one anyone should spare their cash. There was a moment when I wondered if the cloud above was large enough to cover the whole of the rest of my route. Would this buffer persist?
In a telling sting, reminding me of my good fortune, the sun did not return in its full brilliance until I departed the garage for the brief walk to the front door. I might as well have been passing a pizza oven with floor-to-ceiling doors. When the sun flexes, it’s hard to miss.