riding in the rain

is like being slapped in the face by thousands of tiny hands.

I almost hit a car when I was riding down Main Street. A sleek, dusk coloured BMW pulled away from the curb where it had been hidden by a parked van and directly into my path. I was going fast. I was going downhill. I braked as hard as I could, which isn't so hard when it's raining. My wheels locked and turned sideways. I was sliding sideways. I stopped braking. He braked, having seen me. I straightened my wheels, braked again.

And all I could think was: I don't want to scratch this fucker's car.

Then he finally gained enough speed to get the hell out of my way. And I kept going. He turned right. I shook my head. And that was that.

At first I thought: I almost died. But then I thought: no, I almost ran into that car, but I wouldn't have died. Not yet. I'm not ready to die yet. Not on an icily cold rainy night. Not when I'm riding to meet one of my best friends for dinner. Not when I'm going to speak candidly and openly about my life, my loves, my fears. Not when I'm going to listen to my friend, to offer solace and comfort and love. Not when we're going to eat delicious food and wait hours for dessert and play guitar for each other in my kitchen and say goodbye with hugs and kisses and promises of more soon. Not tonight. Tonight is not my night to die.

But I wish I had scratched that fucker's car.