Riding in Rain

Even if it’s inevitable, you think about it, unless you’re from that kind of place and even possibly then, you think about it again, check the forecast for no reason since it’s only those first minutes that make real difference. Desaturated to grey and a tapping hiss, finally resolved more as an absence of the usual sounds than a sound itself, lonelier made worse by your drawn hood or pulled cap if you have one, maybe it’s that you keep your chin down a radian more than usual or that your shoulders shawl around you, maybe it’s that you ride far behind her to stay out of the rooster tail spray that already painted a greybrown streak vertical on your chest, blink bouldery grit and gutter efflux. The droplets are remarkable at first, you can count the early few dozen, your skin finds ways not to move so much against the clingy clammy fabrics. Coasting down a grade, you alternate feet forward, that one in a stream, can feel the ankle chill. Summertime hardly cold, but hardly exactly warm either in spite of your temptation to describe the rainfall that way.

The density of the mythology of it, the cumulonimbus stay inside alarm, persuasion’s pressure that the squeak of the chain in the deluge is catastrophe, shiver skid numb. Dread sufficiently inchoate that it ought but doesn’t make you suspicious of it. Always always after the initial shock reluctance resentment, while it’s happening and soon after you’re done that that’s not nearly as bad as you thought it might be. But you forget.