It has not rained in Houston for 66 days. That is almost one fifth of the year. The last two days are record temperatures: it’s supposed to be 99 degrees Fahrenheit.
Today it is 105 degrees. 105 degrees is six to eight degrees warmer than the average body temperature. It is like breathing air off of the top of a stove: both humid and hot.
I will say what has been said over and over again: the one biggest problem of Houston, TX is the deadly combination of sogginess and heat during the summer. I love Houston, but I also love air conditioning: it’s the staple sound you hear when you walk in a neighborhood at noon: the rumbling and whining of systems at work, delivering cool air to their owners.
It’s not always very comfortable, even with air conditioning. I would moan when I got in the car and the searing heat threatened to cook me alive. It was something I had to do almost every day of the summer: get in the car for swimming practice. Most of the time, only the thought of being able to dive into the swimming pool kept me in my seat.
Then I realized that this “pain” was nothing. Absolutely nothing compared to someone else. His name is Nathan. Picture him: a swimmer who goes to the same practices I do. Tall, lean, sort of Norwegian. I leave at 2:20 for my 2:30 swimming practice. He leaves at 1:40.
There is a reason: his parents cannot take him to the swimming practices because of work. He decided to take things into his own hands. So every single day there is swimming practice, he picks up his bike, straps on his swimming gear into a small metal bar over the back wheel, dons a helmet, and rides away. The lone rider.
Maybe this is nothing. But every single day there is swimming practice, he rides 45 minutes on his bike one way. After practice, he rides another 45 minutes back. His bike is the only one locked to the bars. In his bag, he has a towel for wiping sweat.
Tuesday is a day that I will never forget. I went to practice, looking out the window of the car. Both the radio and the air conditioner are on. I am still complaining about the heat.
Then I see Nathan.
His head is stooped low on the handlebars of his bike as he rides up the sidewalk of the road towards the swimming natatorium. It is the slope of the path and a large hump guards the way. It’s the part of the usual dry-land practice sequence we dread running, anytime in the year. But it is not winter. It is not spring, nor autumn.
It is the summer.
As we drove by him, I gazed through my window, glad it is tinted. I feel slightly ashamed of myself for riding in an air conditioned car while Nathan rides up a hill, one pedal at a time, sweat dripping off his forehead. His towel is draped over his arm. It is dripping wet.
Last Wednesday, he misestimated the time. He arrived an hour late. I gazed up from inside the pool through the window as he locked his bike, walked in, undressing as he moved, went to the coach, and said “I’m sorry I’m late”.
The coach looked at him, gazing into his eyes. “I’m sorry for you.” Nathan thanked the coach, and got into the swimming pool without another word.
soul log is the writing playground of thirteen year old Brandon Wang, a student and self-crowned web designer, living in the Houston, Texas area. He has been writing soul log for over four years. This is his journey.
The Lone Rider
It has not rained in Houston for 66 days. That is almost one fifth of the year. The last two days are record temperatures: it’s supposed to be 99 degrees Fahrenheit.
Today it is 105 degrees. 105 degrees is six to eight degrees warmer than the average body temperature. It is like breathing air off of the top of a stove: both humid and hot.
I will say what has been said over and over again: the one biggest problem of Houston, TX is the deadly combination of sogginess and heat during the summer. I love Houston, but I also love air conditioning: it’s the staple sound you hear when you walk in a neighborhood at noon: the rumbling and whining of systems at work, delivering cool air to their owners.
It’s not always very comfortable, even with air conditioning. I would moan when I got in the car and the searing heat threatened to cook me alive. It was something I had to do almost every day of the summer: get in the car for swimming practice. Most of the time, only the thought of being able to dive into the swimming pool kept me in my seat.
Then I realized that this “pain” was nothing. Absolutely nothing compared to someone else. His name is Nathan. Picture him: a swimmer who goes to the same practices I do. Tall, lean, sort of Norwegian. I leave at 2:20 for my 2:30 swimming practice. He leaves at 1:40.
There is a reason: his parents cannot take him to the swimming practices because of work. He decided to take things into his own hands. So every single day there is swimming practice, he picks up his bike, straps on his swimming gear into a small metal bar over the back wheel, dons a helmet, and rides away. The lone rider.
Maybe this is nothing. But every single day there is swimming practice, he rides 45 minutes on his bike one way. After practice, he rides another 45 minutes back. His bike is the only one locked to the bars. In his bag, he has a towel for wiping sweat.
Tuesday is a day that I will never forget. I went to practice, looking out the window of the car. Both the radio and the air conditioner are on. I am still complaining about the heat.
Then I see Nathan.
His head is stooped low on the handlebars of his bike as he rides up the sidewalk of the road towards the swimming natatorium. It is the slope of the path and a large hump guards the way. It’s the part of the usual dry-land practice sequence we dread running, anytime in the year. But it is not winter. It is not spring, nor autumn.
It is the summer.
As we drove by him, I gazed through my window, glad it is tinted. I feel slightly ashamed of myself for riding in an air conditioned car while Nathan rides up a hill, one pedal at a time, sweat dripping off his forehead. His towel is draped over his arm. It is dripping wet.
Last Wednesday, he misestimated the time. He arrived an hour late. I gazed up from inside the pool through the window as he locked his bike, walked in, undressing as he moved, went to the coach, and said “I’m sorry I’m late”.
The coach looked at him, gazing into his eyes. “I’m sorry for you.” Nathan thanked the coach, and got into the swimming pool without another word.