In a Fog

It is about 11:30 on Monday night. I had an urge to ride an hour or so ago, so I told Shirl I'd be out awhile, pocketed my cell phone, donned my black leather jacket and my helmet, and started up my 1966 R27 (on the first kick). Then, I backed her out of the garage into a pea soup fog.  It was not fun, not being able to see the road in front of me.  So, I only rode about 10 Km, down past the covered bridge to the highway, up to Campton Corner on I-93, and back home along Route 175.  Fortunately, 175 rises high enough to get me above tonight's river-valley fog. Still, the humidity was such that I had to use my glove to wipe condensation from my glasses every 30 seconds. As Tom Wolfe might have put it, "I don't recommend it, but it can be done...  ."