It rained a lot over the weekend here in southern Manitoba,
where my wife’s parents live, but the gravel roads out by the Miami Hutterite
Colony where I rode yesterday were mostly hard and smooth. Mostly.
On a whim, I decided to turn down an unmaintained road—the
kind with a strip of grass growing down the middle, the kind that that has not
been beaten down by vehicle traffic. Any
vehicle traffic. The road looked fine,
but it wasn’t. Within seconds I experienced a distinct riding-in-quicksand
sensation. Mud and tiny bits of gravel flew scattershot on my legs and clung to my tires like prairie
barnacles at the same time. I detected a strange, low rumble coming from the
vicinity of my tires. Then it hit me: it was the Miami Mud, laughing at my
Clement MSO tires.