He was riding his bicycle. That was about the only good thing about the scene right now. The slick, coast road wound up and around the promontories, so that the wind and rain was as often in his face as across the beam.
As the cold rain ran off his Arcteryx rain jacket, soaking his crotch and running down his legs, he pedaled on, one stroke after the other. At the top of the hill, he pulled alongside the other rider, and matched her pedal cadence. Her face was set in a stony expression. The rain was dripping off her nose, and he knew that she was soaked everywhere that he was. Continue reading
The Freewheeling Freelancer 