Windy Wellington
Windy Wellington is right. Wellington's airport has acquired a "Black Star" rating, meaning it is among the most difficult airstrips to land on in the world.
Monday marked the blusteriest day in Henry's memory. The atmosphere was violent and brutal, not so much lashing out at Henry as simply ignorant and uncaring of his presence. Waves crashed against the shoreline, six meters below the road, and threw spray onto the windshields of passing cars. Henry, lacking a windshield, received such moistenings on his face, body, and bicycle. The seaside route ran along the edge of the water for several kilometers as it wound its way from the southern suburbs around the isthmus that held the southwest slopes of Mt. Victoria and finally back to the city center. Each time the road turned left, it exposed Henry to the worst southern gusts. With nothing to soften the blows, Henry was forced to pedal completely out of the saddle, rocking his single speed bike, a rarity in a city where this weather is common and hills are ubiquitous, back and forth. The coast was flat, naturally, but the wind Henry pedaled through rivaled the steepest hills, and once even forced him off his bike entirely. Henry walked a good hundred meters before the wind died enough to let him resume riding.
Henry loved it. He marveled at the view of the rough water. The houses above the road were impressive, with fresh architecture and, for the Arizonan, exotic plants. The sea spray was for Henry what snow is for the warm-weathered during the first two weeks of winter: exciting and new and not yet irritating and persistent. Henry laughed aloud at the way the wind challenged him and ultimately dismounted him. Such a thing was inconceivable at home! So many things here were inconceivable at home, which, to be fair, was the reason Henry was here. To discover new things that Tucson did not offer, and to establish which things only Tucson could.
Monday marked the blusteriest day in Henry's memory. The atmosphere was violent and brutal, not so much lashing out at Henry as simply ignorant and uncaring of his presence. Waves crashed against the shoreline, six meters below the road, and threw spray onto the windshields of passing cars. Henry, lacking a windshield, received such moistenings on his face, body, and bicycle. The seaside route ran along the edge of the water for several kilometers as it wound its way from the southern suburbs around the isthmus that held the southwest slopes of Mt. Victoria and finally back to the city center. Each time the road turned left, it exposed Henry to the worst southern gusts. With nothing to soften the blows, Henry was forced to pedal completely out of the saddle, rocking his single speed bike, a rarity in a city where this weather is common and hills are ubiquitous, back and forth. The coast was flat, naturally, but the wind Henry pedaled through rivaled the steepest hills, and once even forced him off his bike entirely. Henry walked a good hundred meters before the wind died enough to let him resume riding.
Henry loved it. He marveled at the view of the rough water. The houses above the road were impressive, with fresh architecture and, for the Arizonan, exotic plants. The sea spray was for Henry what snow is for the warm-weathered during the first two weeks of winter: exciting and new and not yet irritating and persistent. Henry laughed aloud at the way the wind challenged him and ultimately dismounted him. Such a thing was inconceivable at home! So many things here were inconceivable at home, which, to be fair, was the reason Henry was here. To discover new things that Tucson did not offer, and to establish which things only Tucson could.