by Jay Wamsted
December 18, 2017
One morning I was riding my bicycle to work in a low drizzle, and the skies opened.
I was going down a hill—water streaming in my eyes, raindrops pelting my arms and face, a nonstop stream of kick-up soaking my legs—when I saw it. First I glanced to the right into a clear morning sky, photo-worthy white clouds just a few miles away. Then I looked left.
I saw the sunrise, huge and orange, peeking up over the skyline of Atlanta, dazzling. I had to look away. Bewildered, I swiveled my head right again to the blue sky before looking straight ahead into a roiling mass of dark gray clouds. Water careered about me as I kept inadvertent pace with the storm.
I laughed out loud, like a child—and then I cursed like an adult, a two-wheeled King Lear railing at the heavens. For several miles I rode south into the teeth of the rain, full of impotent fury. Soon, though, I got control of myself and leaned into the discomfort; eventually I turned westward and headed into that beautiful blue sky.
The rain slacked and stalled, and then I was riding on dry streets, leaving a mysterious trail of water behind to mark my way. Minutes later the only remnants of the storm were in my soaking wet clothes.
By the time I made it to work I was dry enough that nobody knew it had rained on me at all.