We got back on our bicycles.
We rode 38 miles today, 20 in the rain.
We sang rain songs.
“If the rain comes they run and hide their heads/They might as well be dead if the rain comes.” (The Beatles)
We aren’t dead.
We made up our own lyrics.
All the bicyclists disappeared.
We found the depot in a small town.
We kept going.
We stopped at the Mars Dairy Bar.
We ordered milkshakes.
Only one size.
He wanted to get going because of the rain.
I said, “It’s not so bad.”
I was wrong.
We left the dairy bar and rode through the town.
We got on the trail.
It rained harder.
We were in the country.
There was no shelter.
A soapy water appeared strangely on my sandals and my toes turned brown.
Our hair was wet and our glasses were wet.
An ink stain spread on my favorite shirt.
My sweatshirt weighed five pounds with rain.
We got to a small town and I didn’t feel I could go on.
I huddled under a pine tree.
I sat on a wet bench.
My husband stood.
He said he could ride to the car and come back for me.
“I’ll keep going.”
We rode on.
I felt genuinely sick.
I’m genuinely tough.
We got home.
Hot baths and scrambled eggs.
I read nothing today.
Off to read.