It seemed, when riding this morning, that I'd timed the switch to the beater perfectly: the city had coated the streets with salt. The timing turned out not to be so great, in the end, however: the city's salt was for a coming snowstorm, in which I found myself riding in the evening.
A snowstorm in which I fell.
Happily it was a little-trafficked residential street, and there was plenty of fresh snow. I went back to see what I'd hit, and it turned out to be a slick patch of ice underlying the snow. In fact, my feet were slipping on more of the stuff. A car came along, and the driver checked on me. "First fall of the season," I told him, when he asked if I were all right. Then he headed off.
And proceeded to do donuts, winding up just decimeters from hitting a parked car. I went to class.
By the time I was heading home, the city's salt had mixed with the grime and snow to make a terrible salty mud-bath, which I had to clean from my clothes. Mari seized the pannier, which had almost undergone a color change, because she didn't want me hauling it around the apartment dropping grit for the week to come.
What a day!