I’ve been there. You’re ten miles from home, the sky turns the color of a bruised plum, and suddenly, the heavens open. Within minutes, your jersey is a cold, soggy sponge, and your spirit is dampening faster than your socks.
If you have ever spent four hours in the saddle only to realize your fingers have turned into static-filled popsicles, you know that cycling is a sport of contact points. Your hands are one of the big three—alongside your feet
I remember the first time I went for a fifty-mile ride without a pair of proper gloves. By mile thirty, my palms felt like they were vibrating at a frequency high enough to shatter glass. By mile forty-five, my fingers
Let’s be real: nothing tanks a perfectly planned ride faster than an unexpected downpour. You start your bicycle commute feeling great, the air is crisp, and then BAM! The sky opens up like a fire hydrant, and suddenly, you’re drenched,
Let’s be real: nothing kills a good ride faster than getting completely soaked. I’ve been there—miles from home, the skies open up, and suddenly you’re pedaling in what feels like a wet, heavy cotton suit. Not fun, not safe, and
Let’s be real for a second. Getting caught in a downpour on your bike is… miserable. It starts as a few drops, and you think, “I can beat it.” Suddenly, you’re soaked to the bone, your core temperature is dropping,
