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Published
in Gulf News, August 1, 2006
Summers to
remember
When
we
tropical types visit Western countries, we expect - no, demand -
that the weather always be lovely and cool. We feel cheated if we
so much as break a sweat. London, I was outraged to discover, can
get to 36C in summer. And I'm positively seething to find that Southern
California is hitting a far-from-balmy 40C.
Bangalore
hits the high-thirties in summer, but after a few of days of this,
there's always an apologetic cooling shower of rain. California
seems to just bake on regardless, so there are nights my wife and
I have to support our inadequate air-conditioning with a floor-standing
fan purchased in a hurry a week ago.
When
I get especially grouchy, I try and remember the hottest summers
of my life - the ones in Muscat, where it gets hotter than Dubai.
But at least, unbearable heat is expected of the Middle East, and
your first 50C day is something to excitedly write home about. Extended
time in a dry heat of 45C and above is like having a runners' high,
it actually feels good after a while. Because of Muscat's hills,
it's rarely humid: just a searing heat that burns exposed skin the
instant one steps out into it. The temperature drops a little after
sunset, and then, as the hills begin releasing their accumulated
warmth, it climbs again. By 8pm, you feel as if you're being slow-roasted
down to the marrow.
I rode
a motorcycle through two summers while I lived there. People thought
I was crazy, but it was simply because I badly wanted a bike and
couldn't afford a car as well. There were many bikers there, but
most had the luxury of being able to put their rides away for the
summer. Actually, I think I was crazy - I know I'd never
do it again.
My
first summer was on a big-engined cruiser, and I was such an excited
new owner that I threw my worries to the boiling winds. I bought
a lightweight motorcycle jacket and just rode, sometimes even carrying
a camera bag and a tripod on long rides in and around the city.
Everywhere I went I'd arrive looking as if somebody had emptied
a bucket of water over me. Luckily I was a reporter for an outdoor
and leisure magazine, so when I made business calls, I looked the
part.
The
next summer, I wasn't as nonchalant. In fact, I was dreading it.
I had various plans, including one that involved a netting vest
to hold freezeable containers, the sort used in cool boxes. As it
started warming up, I did a trial run with the frozen containers
inside a leather motorcycle jacket. I almost passed out - they didn't
work.
I had,
in the meantime, traded the cruiser for a sportsbike, so I consoled
myself that at least I'd get where I was going a lot quicker. It
didn't work that way though. Once surrounding air gets above body
temperature, moving through it heats you up. The faster I moved,
the more I heated up, and once the insulation broke down, my motorcycle
became the only sauna in Muscat that could go from 0 to 120km/h
in… well in any time at all.
After
longer rides, the front of my jacket got so hot that people passing
me in the corridor as I entered the office would actually feel a
blast of heat. They'd invariably stop in amazement and ask the same
silly question: "Where have you been?"
Well,
I've been outside, sweating up memories that ensure I never complain
too loudly about the heat again.
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