Normally, my wife Leah is very supportive of my work and excited for me to travel to far-flung places to ride motorcycles. But this time, there was more than a faint hint of envy as I was packing my bags to fly to Southern California.
“Do you think I should pack shorts?” I asked, as she looked at me with one of those connubial glares that’s equal parts malice and reproach—tinged with love, of course.
When I gazed out the window on Groundhog Day, bemoaning six more weeks of winter, little did I know that, now, 11 weeks later, winter’s icy fist would still be tightly clenched. As I packed my sandals and sunscreen, it’s no wonder Leah looked on with disgust.
Needless to say, landing in sunny California was a shock to the system.