Like most people who spend time outdoors, I learned early how to identify poison ivy. Leaves of three, let it be. Berries white, take flight. I read the articles, listened to the warnings, and became reasonably confident in my ability to avoid it.
For many years, that confidence appeared justified.
Then I went mountain biking with my friend Rick.
Calling it mountain biking may be generous. There were no mountains involved. What we had was a narrow trail winding through the woods over an astonishing collection of roots, rocks, and other obstacles apparently placed there by someone with a grudge against bicycles. The trail had only recently opened and was considerably more challenging than my abilities at the time.
Eventually I ran out of talent.
I was launched from the bicycle and landed directly in what was, without question, the largest and healthiest patch of poison ivy in recorded history. At least that’s how I remember it.
Unfortunately, I was dressed for cycling rather than poison ivy avoidance. Thin Lycra shorts provided approximately the same level of protection as good intentions.
The sensible response would have been to go home immediately and take a shower. Instead, we continued riding. Then we visited the bike shop. Then we went for another ride. Many hours passed.
By the time I finally showered, the outcome had already been determined.
Poison ivy is remarkably patient.
The rash that followed was the worst case of poison ivy I have ever experienced. For the next three weeks I was reminded of my mistake every time I sat down.
None of it should have happened.
I knew how to identify poison ivy. I knew how the rash developed. I knew that washing quickly after exposure could often prevent problems.
It turns out that knowing what to do and doing it are two entirely different things.