Actually, she isn’t - she’s a hot, dusty old hag - and I told her so.

Temperatures are starting to cool ever so slightly here in Oregon, and a couple days ago she delivered one perfectly overcast day. Hinting at rain, even letting a few measly drops splatter the pavement, every dirt biker in the office was practically frothing. Of course, the wimpy attempt at precipitation did nothing to alleviate the dust, nor the fire hazard that keeps our trails closed, but if I had a dollar for every “let’s go riding!” I heard that day… well, I wouldn’t have to type this blog. Now the temps are headed back into the 90s and the weatherman can’t even spell the word “rain.”

We’ve got a trip to the coast which should be nice, but quads in the sand just don’t scratch this festering itch for moist, loamy brown stuff. After that it’s a whirlwind of cross-country flights, and before it’s even started, my September is already gone. Hopefully by the time I finish this round of jet setting, that rotten matriarch will offer more than just a glimpse, an infuriating, intoxicating whiff of sweet perfume. What a tease…