Brass Monkeys

As far as I'm concerned there are only a few definite rules in cycling.

Don't wear black socks is obviously one -- even if you have won the Tour seven times.

Always check who's behind you before clearing your nose over your shoulder -- that's another.

And don't wear jerseys you're not entitled to.  (A few points here.  The wearing of kit from long-disbanded or willfully obscure pro teams is just about OK.  Especially if the kit was very cheap.  And if you're really, really fat -- then the wearing of a red-and-white polka dot jersey in an ironic way is also OK, as long as you accept that it's the two-wheeled equivalent of wearing a tie designed to look like a piano keyboard and you will never get laid.  Oh, and be careful if you bring this rule to other people's attention. I only narrowly avoided disaster and embarrassment at Herne Hill a few years ago when I spent a pleasant half-hour warming up with an old fella in a rainbow jersey.  I was within a syllable of teasing him about his stylistic faux-pas when another rider joined us and congratulated him on his recent World Championship victory (Masters, on the track, but still.....)  

Anyway. A new rule occurred today.  When all the water in your bidon freezes solid, it's probably time to head home. I ignored it, and only now, hours later, are my toes on speaking terms with the rest of my body.  I've never been a big fan of overshoes, but they suddenly make a lot of sense.