After a week of clear skies and summer-like warmth, a succession of cold fronts has swept through, dropping temperatures and ushering in hours of chill, soaking rain. Is there a silver lining to these lowering clouds? Sure there is. Dramatic cloudscapes.

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The glossy photos in outfitters’ catalogs never fail to elicit a knowing chuckle from many of us Old Hands. The models in the photos are poised for action, supposedly frozen for all time in the midst of high adventure. I use the word “supposedly” for a reason. Consider the evidence: Not a hair on their heads is out of place. No pools of sweat darken their shirts. Their collars show no pinprick bloodstains from blackfly bites. And their white socks are … yes … dazzlingly white, untouched by the greasy mud of beaver ponds. Even the creases in their immaculate clothes stand sharp and proud. The upshot? These amiable action figures, now made flesh by Mad Men, wouldn’t look at all out of place on the veranda of the local yacht club, tall drinks in hand.

My own appearance frequently falls short of this standard, of course. Even on the good days, when the biting flies keep their distance and the portage trails have somehow escaped the attentions of the local beavers, I present a rather bedraggled aspect. Dirt‑clogged nails, scabby knees, smears of mud on brow and forearm, frayed sleeves, and a shiny, grimy seat, worn almost threadbare on hard granite and prickly cane — those are my fashion signatures. More Parris Island than Paris, France, in other words.

I don’t ascribe this to any personal failing, however. Truth to tell, most of the paddlers I meet in the backcountry look more like me than the immaculate models in the catalogs. That’s really no surprise. Insect repellent, campfire smoke, and spilled food all leave their mark, as do blood, sweat, and (occasionally) tears. Even if you can somehow achieve a Good Housekeeping standard of hygiene in camp, there’s no escaping Mother Nature. Water and earth are the dominant themes in her exterior decoration scheme. When these two elements come together, mud is the inevitable result. And neither hot showers nor washing machines are frequent amenities once you leave the put‑in behind you.

Still, it’s nice to be able to slip into something comfortable and more‑or‑less clean at day’s end, isn’t it? Which is why I always adopt a policy of strict separation… Read more…

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No, that’s not a typo in the title line. Cyclists who share the public highways with cars don’t have much to gain by being invisible. They need to be seen—and seen as soon as possible, in order to avoid becoming roadkill. And while I know it’s fashionable in certain cycling circles to sneer or snicker at hi-viz gear, those folks will have to include me out of their campaigns. (My apologies to Sam Goldwyn’s ghost. I hope he doesn’t mind my recycling one of his most famous lines.) For my part, I’m delighted when a motorist comes up to me—as one did recently in the parking lot of the local HyperMart—and tells me that she really appreciates the effort I’ve made to stand out from the crowd in the confused blur of traffic.

Bottom line? What I wear when I’m on my bike isn’t a fashion statement. It’s an affirmation of my desire to remain among the living. I know there are no guarantees, of course. Hi-viz won’t do a thing for me if the driver behind me on the state highway is reading her text messages or turning around to see if the dog threw up on the baby. But hi-viz gives me a slight edge whenever a responsible motorist’s attention drifts. And that’s all I ask.

Which is why I was delighted to find Jogalite cyclist’s legbands. Here they are right out of the box:

The reflective surface is 10 inches long and 1½ inches wide, and there’s a generous length of hook-and-loop closure, so they’ll fit almost anyone, no matter how fat or thin his ankles. (The felted back makes them comfortable on bare skin, too.) And they won’t drag you down. They weigh almost nothing. Which is why I’m now wearing them on every ride. They do the job pedal reflectors are supposed to do, but they do it better. Much better. And they won’t crack when a stray pebble hits them, either. They’ll even catch a motorist’s eye in bright daylight. (How do I know? Motorists have told me.)

What about cost? Well, I paid ten bucks for two Jogalite legbands. I figured my life was worth at least that much. And I’ll bet you think yours is, too. So what’s stopping you?

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