My cycling clients occasionally speak of getting up on a weekend morning and feeling the urge to do a century, that is, a hundred mile bike ride in some direction or other. I think they are crazy but it’s the kind of crazy I understand, since I think of a hundred-pound bar as a warmup squat and like to coax out twenty reps so that I can say I’ve done my first ton of the day.
Now and then my clients will hand me a clean crisp hundred-dollar bill, forcing me to scramble for change, but there is something solid and potent about that C-note, which tucks nicely into the cookie jar.
A hundred degrees Fahrenheit at National Airport (I refuse to call it Reagan) is just bullshit, though. At six in the evening, no less.
Here is a bit of local reporting from the last century on the last time it got this Godawful around these parts. For perspective, the story appeared a bare month after the man I married, dead five years now, was pried into the light of day. Hoover was President. Gesumaria.
My kind old house, made of brick and block like the one the wolf couldn’t blow down, has kept the below-ground temperatures bearable even during the sixty-some hours that no one on my block had air conditioning, but we would all like this to go away now (there was a brief blip this afternoon when the power company had to turn off the local grid to deal with a tree-embraced wire south down the hill, and I need no more such palpitations).
They say a cold front will blow through on Sunday. One worries only that the accompanying turbulence will not create any more mayhem. Wish us luck.