"Woe to you, O earth and sea...

For the Devil sends the Beast with Wrath."

Not only these the words that presages the vicious guitar salvo of Iron Maiden's "Number of the Beast", but they ably illustrate my fear of more snow in the forecast.

Just substitute "Beast" for "snow", and "Sea" with "Lake Michigan", or maybe even the Chicago River...

Truth be told, Chicago's been pretty damn fortunate to have had a relatively mild Fall; I rode a century comfortably in September, and was riding in shorts (granted, with wool tights underneath) maybe a week or so ago. But when the snow came, it CAME. It arrived like an unwanted load of junk mail that had been on hold, just waiting for its recipients to return from vacation. Blarg.

I guess what really chaps my ass is that these conditions really slice into my weekly regimen, and that lovely padding 'round my middle inflates like a monster truck's (Gravedigger?) tire. I recently dropped a few dimes on some proper wool undergarments, and they have proving ten times their worth over the last few days. So it's not the cold that's daunting. It's the WIND (30 mph on the way back from work); it's the perma-ice that sticks around due to the constant cycle of thaw and re-freeze, making every other block a treacherous glacial odyssey; it's my co-workers constantly asking, "Goddamn! You RODE in this shit?"

Well, that last item's kinda bullshit. Those are the kind of outlooks that keep me rolling through the tundra, despite Old Man Winter, the Abominable Snowman, scores of Yeti, along with Elvis (with Satan riding shotgun) in a '57 Chevy being less than 20 paces behind my fat ass.