On the afternoon of the fourth day, Weather began to explore the promise of Bike-to-Work Week.

The first three and a half days of the week had been perfect: cool, sunny, calm. On Thursday morning, just after the rush hour, rain began to fall in Cambridge. The rain faded before noon, but the forecast promised more, including thunderstorms, for the afternoon and evening.

I respect lightning. I know that my bicycle is insulated from the ground by its rubber tires, but will the lightning know? I must have been napping when this topic came up in Earth Science class. I don't know whether the lightning would know about the tires before striking the bicycle or, instead, strike the metal frame of the bike and then, discovering the rubber preventing it from reaching ground, zip around the bicycle in furious frustration. Prudently, I decided to leave work before the rainstorm hit.

About an hour before a rainstorm hits, the wind tends to pick up. It's the weather moving from a high-pressure area to a low or something. In any case, the rain was in Hartford and Worcester, but the wind had made it up the Pike to Cambridge. I decided to take the Brighton route again, reasoning that wind traveling unfettered along the Charles would be more difficult to deal with. I was probably wrong. I had neglected to consider that (1) the wind might be at my back and (2) the Brighton route had hills and construction.

I went through the construction site first. Cambridge Street was being resurfaced and had been excavated to dirt. The wind took that dirt and assorted other Brighton grit and threw it at me at about 40 mph. I had grit in my hair, my fleece, my shorts, my socks, and my teeth. I spit, not the first person to do so on Cambridge Street in Brighton, but unattractively nonetheless. It didn't much help.

When I turned up the hill at Washington Street, the wind, perversely, picked up. As you can tell from my picture, ranking people from narrow to broad, I'm pretty much a broad. Wind hits me and it doesn't go anywhere. My 70s helmet also lacks the admirably streamlined shape of the newer models. As I geared down and the wind geared up, we reached pretty much of an impasse. I pedaled furiously, but made little progress. I tried yelling; it did no good. The denizens of Guido's Sub Shop watched me for a while, but eventually they lost interest and returned to their grinders.

I finally got up the hill and relaxed, knowing that I was going to travel downhill all the way through Brookline to the hill below Jamaica Pond. I got home and shook the grit off myself. I realized that I had picked up that grit in Brighton, carried it through Brookline, and deposited it in Jamaica Plain, just like the mighty Mississippi. Talk about having an impact on the environment--I had, in my small way, altered the geology of the Boston Basin.

Learn more about Bike-to-Work Week, May 15-19, 2000.

Friday morning, the thunderstorm had passed, but the rain remained. It was a pusillanimous little rain, light but steady, of no real consequence except to cyclists and pedestrians.

The rain spoiled my plan to ride my real bicycle, a 30-year-old Motebecane Grand Record. It is a wonderful bike: 25 pounds of Reynolds 531 tubing, Campagnolo derailleurs, Universal Model 68 center-pulls, and skinny slick tires that take 90 psi, thank you very much. It is typically French: pretty, light, fast, but a little quirky, requiring a skilled and attentive rider. It is designed for ideal conditions, and under such conditions, it can roll forever. ("Yar" is what Katherine Hepburn would have called it: "My," she would have said, "isn't it yar.") Today was not the day for my Motobecane. I reluctantly returned it to the garage and got out my son's Trek again.

The Trek is a typically American bicycle: sturdy and prosaic, it helps its rider conquer nature. It has fat tires with nubbly sides. It sneers at weather.

I made few concessions to the weather. I dressed as I had all week. I never could figure out how to ride with one of those silly bike ponchos on, and besides, when it rains, water comes at a cyclist from all directions. Rain suits are worse than rain; you shed the rain but sweat up the inside of the suit anyway. You arrive at work wet and smelling like cod.

I did leave inessential articles at home. I emptied my courier bag except for: my wallet, for identification; my cell phone, preset to dial 911; my Palm Pilot, to record fleeting journalistic insights and license plate numbers; and clean underwear, in case I had to go to the hospital.

I began the trip gingerly, avoiding puddles on Centre Street and Pond Street. By the time I got around Jamaica Pond, however, I was soaked on all top and front surfaces. Water was dripping through the air vents on my helmet. I could feel the beginning of the Mud Butt Stripe from the water and grit thrown up by the rear tire. I stopped worrying about puddles and settled into a sodden fatalism that stayed with me for the entire trip.

When you cycle in the rain, water gets you everywhere. I had carefully dried the bicycle seat before I left, but it got wet when I dismounted at traffic lights. I'd get off the seat; rain would fall on it; and I would get back on. Soon, I had a feeling that I had not had, without shame, since I was a toddler. The rain made my clothes cling to my skin, and then the breeze went straight through the clothes. I couldn't really see; the rain had speckled my glasses, and my breath fogged them up as well. Cars could have made a more serious effort to avoid puddles, but as long as the car itself didn't hit me, I chose not to complain.

I had to take it easy. Even on the Trek, braking is chancy on a wet day. Besides, when I picked up any speed, the rain just came at me harder. Had I not been a Gonzo Journalist, I would have pulled into that alluringly warm and dry Dunkin' Donuts and called a cab.

My clothes are now draped over my bicycle, dripping onto the rug. They are wet and gritty. I have hopes that they'll be dry by this evening, but it probably won't matter much, as more rain is forecast. There's just something really unpleasant about pulling on cold, wet bike shorts at the end of a long day.