If you’ve ever ridden a motorbike, in winter, through falling rain, you’ll already know what I’m talking about. It’s slippery, soggy and surreal.
Every inch of your skin is wet. It doesn’t start that way of course. It’s the shirt first, then the jeans. It’s a valiant effort by your Levis. Soaking in enough water to save a drought bit village, then, your jeans swells and brims over, the water seeping right into your skin. That accelerator is suddenly tougher to grip, the feedback from the engine long-lost to your numb fingers. The clutch is harder than normal and the leather seat biting you through your jeans. You really can’t see where you are going, helmet visors make it tough, without the visor, the sting of the falling rain in your eyes make it near impossible. At the crux of the battle between jeans and the seeping rain, the moment the last defense of your underpants collapses under the
incessant torrent of rain, when you feel the cold rain reach your warm crevices, that’s the moment you decide it’s futile to seek refuge under a tree. But you are enjoying this somewhere, riding ahead with a stupid smile on your face, the water slapping your face and washing away the grime of the day. A stupid wry smile crosses, imagining sheets of water cascading off a mountain face in a rain forest, that’s when you snuggle into your seat, lean in and twist the accelerator a little bit more.