SEATTLE, Washington Hail blots the Seattle skyline, as I stash my bike in the basement, fingers numbed. Shortly two inches crust the deck. All terribly lovely except for my 6am flight to South America.
The city freezes into an inert slab. Taxi companies refuse to answer the phone. The airport shuttle is running and vaguely promises service "sometime within the next 12 hours."
Marie emails from balmy New York: "Make Hatboy take you."
HB doesn't remove the vintage Porsche 9-11 from the garage if it's misting. Or dark. Or could possibly become misty or dark. A freak snowstorm is no time to expect heroics.
The van arrives 20 minutes before my flight, which, naturally, departs on time. I decide to brazen it out.
"We can only rebook you to Bogotá, not Medellin," the clerk says. "All the flights are full for days."
I consult the guide. Yes, a nine-hour bus runs cross-country.
"Go," I say. "Gogogogooooo."