Putting on layers and layers of compact but warm cycling clothes in the winter just to find that you going to be late for work because you can't find a glove and it's 25c below and you have no choice in the matter because you have no other way to get to work. So you run around your apartment bundled up like a Southpark kid in search of this one glove, getting hotter and hotter as you get madder and madder.

Finally, you find the glove stashed between the cushons in the couch that you checked three times before. Now 15 minutes late for work, you get outside and freeze to death anyway because all the sweat soaking in the bottom layer of your winter Southpark cycling outfit has turned to ice

Your only hope is that there's enough adreanalin pumping in you from the mad apartment search that you can ride hard enough and fast enough to work without being so late that your boss is going to tear your head clean off with his bare hands when he sees you next. Of course, when he sees your bloodshot, still enraged eyes from under your frozen eyelashes, he should hopefully know better than to screw with you in such a psychotic state of mind.

That's what I hate about cycling.