The Rainstorm That Sold Me on a Dry Bag

The rain hit somewhere north of Roanoke, and it hit hard. I was on the second day of my yearly ride from Pittsburgh down to Myrtle Beach, about 600 miles each way, and I had maybe four hours left. The sky went from gray to black in the time it took me to pass a truck stop. I pulled off under an overpass, sat on the Chieftain, and watched the water come down in sheets. That was the day I learned what my IRON JIA'S dry bag was actually for.

I didn't buy the IRON JIA'S bag for a rainstorm. I bought it because I got tired of arriving at the beach with damp clothes and a phone charger that smelled like wet dog. For years I used a soft-sided duffel and a trash bag liner, and the trash bag always ended up with a hole in it by the time I crossed into North Carolina. So last season I picked up the 30-liter version, strapped it to the passenger seat with the adjustable straps, and forgot about it. Forgot about it, that is, until the sky opened up.

Here's what happened in that storm. The bike got washed, my jacket soaked through at the collar, and my boots were sloshing by the time I found a gas station with a covered pump. But when I unrolled the top of that bag that night at the motel in Virginia, my jeans were dry. My spare shirt was dry. The paperback I'd thrown in on top was dry. The internal pocket held my phone and my wallet, and they were dry too. Everything I'd packed in the bag was exactly the way I'd packed it, and I stood in the bathroom and laughed at myself for never buying one sooner.

The bag is not complicated. It's a 30-liter roll-top duffel made from 500D PVC with high-frequency welded seams. That's the whole story. Nothing to catch the wind, just a top you roll over and fasten down. It weighs about 1.18 kilograms empty, which is nothing on a touring bike. The straps are adjustable and removable, and the shoulder strap lets me carry it like a duffel when I'm off the bike or strap it flat across the passenger seat when I'm not. It's a universal fit, which is a polite way of saying it doesn't care what you ride.

That night at the motel I laid everything out on the bed and took a picture to send to the guys I ride with. The caption wrote itself: dry. My jeans, my spare shirt, the paperback, the phone charger that used to smell like wet dog. All of it dry. The bag had done in one storm what every other piece of luggage I'd owned had failed to do in thirty-five years of riding. I slept better that night than I had any right to, and not just because the bed was flat.

Everything I'd packed in that bag was exactly the way I'd packed it. That's the whole point of a dry bag, and it's the first one that ever actually did it for me.

The next morning I did something I don't usually do. I repacked the bag, this time on purpose. The 30-liter size is right for me for a two-day trip: a change of clothes, a spare pair of boots, a toiletries kit, and a book. The internal pocket swallows a 15-inch laptop or tablet, which I don't usually carry, but it's nice to know it's there. On the ride home, three days later, it rained again, and again the bag did its job. That's when I stopped thinking of it as a nice-to-have and started thinking of it as part of the bike.

I've had the bag for about a season and a half now. It's been on two Myrtle Beach trips and a lot of weekend rides around western Pennsylvania. It's been strapped to the bike in sun, in rain, and once in a hailstorm that had me parked under a bridge for forty minutes. The bag has never leaked. Not once. I can't say that about the rain suit I bought the same year, and I can't say it about the first dry bag I tried, which let water in through the zipper tape. This one doesn't have that problem, because the opening is a roll-top, not a zipper. The IRON JIA'S is the one that finally got it right.

Linda, who takes the car to Myrtle Beach, asked me why I didn't just put the bag in the trunk with her. I told her the bike needed a trunk of its own. She rolled her eyes, but she's the one who reminded me to pack it on the way home. That's the thing about a good piece of gear. It doesn't need to be flashy. It just needs to do the one job you bought it for, every single time, until you forget it's there.

What I'd Tell You If We Were Sitting at My Kitchen Table

Here's what I'd tell you. Buy the size that matches how you actually pack, not the size you think you should want. I ride with a passenger seat to spare, so 30 liters is plenty for me. If you're hauling camping gear, get the bigger one. Roll the top three full turns and fasten it down. A roll-top only works if you roll it. Strap it tight enough that it doesn't shift in a corner, but not so tight you crush what's inside. Keep the heavy stuff low, near the seat. And don't leave it half-open at a rest stop, because a dry bag that's open is just a bag. The IRON JIA'S has been the most boring, dependable piece of gear on my bike, and I mean that as a compliment.