Hail drops keep falling on my head

The sky was dark and nasty around 5:30 p.m. as I watched the green turn to orange and red on the Weather Channel radar.

The way I figured it, there was still time to get my evening commute home before the big part of the storm struck, being as the big red glob was still coming up U.S. 29, somewhere around Lynchburg. All I had to contend with was the little blob that seemed to be forming right near the intersection of Rio Road and U.S. 29.

A little rain, I thought, won't hurt me.

Of course, this was the one day I chose to ignore my ATGATT proclivity and didn't bother wearing the overpants that normally cover my azz, protecting knees, hips and skin. All I had between me and road rash was a pair of dress-denim black jeans, but sometimes you have to say faht the whuck and go dangerous, you know?

Besides, I've been wet before. Pretty much a lot, actually. Once your underwear is soaked and squishy, the fun is pretty much over and the ride is all that's left. Once you deal with that, rain riding is easier.

I put on the jacket, walked to Thumper, did the old FINE-C and donned gloves and Old Glory before pulling a tighty-righty out of the parking space and heading to Rio. The clouds were ominous and angry, sort o f a steel gray backing up a dark gunmetal and they were swirling around like 6-day-old coffee dumped into a flushed toilet.

Don't ask how I know that.

The pavement was wet. I mean wet, like in puddles and the oil and glunk from vomitting transmissions was floating atop the puddles in the tire grooves and creating an interesting patchwork of puddles on the slick center of the lane. I picked the left tire groove and get my groove on, cracking throttle to try and beat the light at U.S. 29.

Didn't work. County mounty on the other side waiting for someone to blow it red. The Buell's brakes bit and I stopped quick, but not crazy.

I waited. The clouds came closer.

I waited some more. The clouds, however did not.

Just as the light was about to change, an ambulance roared through, hitting the magic button and causing the world to recycle green for 29.

I waited some more. The clouds began to spit at me, mocking my puny humaness and my one-lung bike.

Just as the light turned green, the clouds did, too. The cold soaking of a hard rain immediately went through my jeans to my thighs. I took a deep breath and throttled up, roaring to the light at Fashion Square Mall, hoping to beat it.

Nope.

More rain.

I roared again, but got stopped at Hillsdale. I roared again as little white balls of ice bounced off my head and jacket and shins and the rain came down.

I passed an old man in a boat filled with animals heading out of town and hung a right on Greenbrier Drive as the sky opened up with its watery reserves, covering my face shield with bead-blasted raindrops. I turned my head to the left so the wind blast of an unfaired bike at 30 mph would force the water off the shield and down my neck.

At least I could see.

The ice got bigger and I thought of the time in Colorado when the guy in a Chevy Cavalier was killed by grapefuit size hail striking his windshield, shattering it and breaking his arm. He got of out of the car, got hit on the head by another steroid hail ball, fell down and drowned in a puddle of rain water.

I rode faster.

Of course, I would never disobey the road signs or the speed limit, but somehow I seemed to get home a little quicker than usual, being as most people were smart enough to get out of the way of a crazy man with flag emblazened on his head and eyes bugging out who kept turning his head from side to side and squirming on the seat of his bike while the rain soaked into his Fruit of the Looms.

Just another day in the commuting life of an SOB.

God, I love motorcycles.