When the first big blob of rain shattered off my impervious face shield, I felt a white-hot lance of pure pleasure intimately. Like someone had plunged it deep into my heart, after I'd begged them to do so for weeks. It was going to rain. I said so, the overcast, almost pregnant sky confirmed it and the pedestrians scurrying for cover confirmed it. Instinctively, I patted the tankbag to make sure I had the rain gear on top. And I aborted that motion halfway, lost in watching the sky break into half and prepare to dump a million gallons of water down. As I turned the corner onto the highway, the visibility dropped, the rain grew in volume and intensity. I remember a fleeting thought – I'm glad I didn't put any of the rain stuff on. This was going to be fun. The next fifteen minutes were pure and intense. The rain never let up. Neither did I. I think I was singing aloud at the top of my voice as I sliced through the rapidly slowing traffic. This is what a Saturday ride to work should be like, I screamed.