Listen, I know we’re not supposed to talk about, you know, climate change in this here Free State Of Florida. It’s not politic.
But I got a beef.
Or, I dunno, maybe I just got old and scary.
All I know is that there has been a huge change in my life style of late. And it’s either because of the weather condition that dare not speak its name…
…or maybe because I’m more aware of my own creeping mortality.
Anybody who knows me knows that I’m a cyclist. It’s not just what I do. It’s who I am.
Last year, my 75th year, I cycled more than 3,000 miles. I cycled in Wyoming and in San Francisco. I cycled from Washington. D.C. to the Mississippi River in that merry month of May. And to celebrate my 75th birthday I rode from St. Augustine to GNV and fell just 4.5 miles short of making it a century.
I don’t think I’ve biked 25 miles over the last month.
And nine of those miles were racked up on the decidedly more temperate streets of London, UK.
For a guy who thinks nothing of hopping on a bike to go downtown, to campus, First Mag, C&G or any other number of GNV destinations, these past weeks have been maddening.
You know that joke about people who drive to the gym so then can walk a mile on a treadmill or pedal five miles on a stationary bike?
I have became that joke.
I’m not proud of it.
But, listen, it’s hot out there.
Damned hot!
Historically hot.
And you can’t turn on the TV or read the news without someone warning you against venturing outside.
Lest you shrivel up and die under the Florida sun.
Rather like those poor Mole People in the cheesy 1956 sci fi flick. (Hey, pal, everything I know I learned from the movies.)
I’m still not sure I’ve got a handle on this heat index thing. But I know that even 98 degrees in the shade these days isn’t good for humans and other carbon based life forms.
It’s not the humility, pal. It’s the humidity.
And what do the experts tell you when the mercury explodes out the top of the thermometer? Oh yeah: Don’t forget to check on your pets…and the elderly.
Don’t ask me when I suddenly woke up and realized that I’m – gasp! – elderly. Let’s just say that I’m more cognizant of my, um, diminished capacity (yeah, me too Joe) this summer than ever before.
Still, to give The Great DeSanitizer his due, maybe I’m just being a drama queen.
A pearl clutcher.
A Chicken Little.
I mean, this is Florida, right?
It gets hot in the summer in Florida.
Everybody knows that.
Only I’ve been riding through Florida summers all my adult life. And I can tell you that this summer feels different.
Like stepping outside and into a microwave oven different.
And it’s not like I just hit a 76-year old wall and realized I couldn’t hack it anymore.
Last month, while much of the U.S. was under unseasonable heat advisories, I hiked England’s Cotswold Way. A hundred miles in nine days. And hardly broke a sweat (although my feet and legs may never forgive me).
No, this feels like the new normal.
And it scares me.
And if it’s scaring me imagine what it’s doing to folks who make their living harvesting crops under the Florida sun.
Or to construction workers who sweat under their hard hats and cannot, according to state law, even be guaranteed water breaks or shade stops.
What the hell have we done to ourselves people?
And more importantly, what the hell are we going to do next summer?
FreeGNV 