Up here in the Top Left Corner, Gore-Tex has a status that borders on the near-mythical, a lust-inducing elusiveness not unlike silk to the Roman Empire. We build temples to it (REI), swath our newborns in it, pin our jackets up on exposed hooks like tapestries, alerting all who visit to our status. If the three wise men had come from Seattle, they would have gifted the Baby Jesus a polar fleece pullover, sweat-wicking compression tights and a Gore-Tex jacket.
I have no idea how they make the stuff, but I picture tiny darkened rooms filled with miniature animatronic worms, munching on sheets of raw carbon fiber and spinning out strands of waterproof, breathable, miraculous fabric.
But socks? Gore-Tex socks? Really? In a way, this strikes me as the height of semi-athletic indulgence, something on the order of a gold lamé jock strap or a cashmere ace bandage.
But yes, I want them. Biking in the winter is a lesson in protecting extremities. You can live with cold legs, arms and torso, but cold, wet hands and feet? That’s misery. Gore-Tex socks means salvation from wet feet, no matter what kind of shoe you’ve got.
I haven’t tried them yet. But it won’t be long. Thanks to my friend Eric for the idea.