Heat Index

A native Nebraskan, I’ve always derided the idea of “heat index” or “wind chill.” You ask the temperature or hear it on the radio. “It’s 88 degrees outside,” the announcer says. “But humidity’s high so it feels like it’s 100 degrees.” Come winter they’ll be announcing that the wind chill means it “feels like 10 below”.

Even as a child, I dismissed the idea. Heat index and wind chill are for weenies–people who want to whine about how hot or cold it is when it really isn’t that bad.

I grew up in Nebraska. We never have heat without humidity. 95 degrees with humidity still feels like 95 degrees to me. It’s all I’ve ever known (excepting my brief stay in Mexico and forays into the mountains where the dry air makes 95 feel positively comfortable.)

I grew up in Nebraska. We never have winter without wind. 5 degrees with wind is still 5 degrees.

Today, Joanna and I took a bike ride. We started out on the MoPac East, intending to ride to Elmwood and back, somewhere around 36 miles.

As we traveled to the trailhead, Joanna commented on the weather. They’re predicting scattered thunderstorms. It’s pretty humid. We’re under a heat advisory.

“Heat advisory!” I scoffed. “They put those things out entirely too often.” After all, there’s barely been a day that hasn’t had a heat advisory for the past two weeks. “We’ll do fine.”

We enjoyed a nice ride, commenting to each other how much easier the return trip would be–so long as the wind didn’t change.

Ride, ride. Take a break. Sip water from my camel-back.

Talk a bit. Ride some more. Note the trees and streams and velvety soybean fields.

We passed through Walton, arrived at Eagle. We’re pushing on to Elmwood. Tired, slowing, starting to think about lunch.

Two more miles, one more mile. We’re here at last. Halfway. Only the return journey to go.

Let’s find a park, a bench, somewhere to eat our lunches.

We sit at a bench beside the community center, watching old men come and go. I pick at my sandwich, eat a pear. My appetite’s been poor for months now–and today is not a good day for eating.

Turn around, fly down the hill from Elmwood back to the trail. We’re on the road again.

The wind is with us, but we’re fatiguing. The sun has risen to the top of the sky and we’re starting to feel hot. We’re counting off the miles again–except that this time we have 18 more miles to go.

Seventeeen…

Sixteen…

My camel-back is almost dry, my clothes completely soaked. We’re gonna have to stop in Eagle, I say. I need to get something to drink.

We discuss heat exhaustion, heat stroke. Best to know the signs and how to respond just in case.

My odometer slowly counts up the miles. Twenty two…Twenty three…Twenty Four.

I remark to Joanna that I can’t believe people who run marathons. Two more miles, I say, and we’ll have ridden the distance of a marathon. How do people do that?

I’m really looking forward to stopping at Eagle, getting something to drink. I’m soaked through. My clothes are starting to chafe horribly, and I’m feeling a bit…off.

My odometer announces that we’ve traveled 26 miles. A marathon.

And Eagle lies over the next little rise.

We park our bikes at a gas station and begin to fantasize about the air conditioning that will greet us when we open the door.

Oh, it felt nice.

Joanna points out the mud on my face–a mixture of road dust and sweat. I head to the bathroom to clean it off. I don’t need to use the restroom. Never mind that I’ve consumed two liters of water in the past couple of hours. My bladder is empty. I’ve sweated it all out.

I walk back out of the bathroom and Joanna takes a good look at me. “I think maybe we should call and see if someone could pick us up.”

I don’t like to admit it, but I can’t deny. “Yeah, I think maybe we should.”

We buy some Gatorade and sit at a booth while I call back to Lincoln to ask for a ride.

I was clearly dehydrated–and probably running out of both glucose and electrolytes. It was clear that for my sake we needed to call it a day.

Twenty-six miles.

Thirty-six would have sounded so much better.

How my brothers will tease.

But twenty six isn’t shabby, I told myself. And we rode most of it against the wind, in a heat advisory.

We passed a marquee as we entered Lincoln: 88 degrees. Disappointing.

“Bah,” I said, “what with the heat index and all, it felt an awful lot hotter.”