It’s a Thursday morning and the sky is blotted out by layers of rain clouds. They are dense, nebulous, consuming. The streetlights are still on, their sensors fooled by the dark clouds and downpour. Water pounds the roof of my apartment. It spatters windows with a click and a tap, while I hunt through my apartment. Gortex boots, rainpants, raincoat, waterproof cycling bag, I’m set.
It doesn’t matter the day of the week or what the weather is doing, there comes a point when I love my commute. Almost to work, I cross a pedestrian bridge over Forest Park Parkway into campus. Traffic spills in both directions. Cars, people, annoyances packed together in start-stop frustration. I may be a little damp, it could be incoveniant to dress for weather, but I feel free. My feet move, my tires move, I propel forward two stories above the traditional commuters. At that moment upon the bridge, I don’t care about the money I’m saving, the carbon footprint I’ve reduced, the calories I’ve burned. At that moment, I breath deep, enjoy the pleasure of the ride, of being free from people looking caged and claustrophobic. At that moment, I feel the rain drip through my hair and patter on my jacket, and ride the last remaining leg unimpeded.