This happened

The sky was overcast this morning. The sun came and went. A breeze came and went. It was a good morning to pedal around Old Town and then up the bike trail along the Poudre River.

At the beginning of our bicycle ride, we stopped for coffee and some food. Outside the coffee shop we ran into a local comedienne and her mother. Several weeks ago at a bar after an open-mic show this comedienne suggested that I go on a date with her mother. Part of her act is about how mean and crazy her mother is.

In the center of our bicycle ride, we saw two horses near a fence by the bike trail. We stopped to pet a horse. One horse walked up to the fence, but she was more interested in pulling up grass with her teeth than having her snout or mane rubbed. Her eyes were kind. She looked at us with understanding. She reminded me to go home and read James Wright's poem, "A Blessing." The other horse in the field, the one who did not approach us, was wearing a mask. I didn't understand. My friend explained to me that the mask, and the blanket that each of the horses was wearing, was designed to protect against biting flies. As the kind horse approached us, I saw that the blanket she wore had a logo on it. It said, "Bug Rug."

In the center of our bicycle ride, there was also a woman training for a marathon running along the trail. She stopped for water where we stopped for water, at the drinking fountain where a small, weak, three-leafed dandelion grew behind the fountain's spigot. My friend was telling me a story from her youth. A stolen truck was involved. She was in San Diego. The woman getting in shape for a marathon stepped up from behind us and asked to hear the story. My friend did not tell it again. Instead, she deftly side-tracked the conversation. The woman getting in shape for a marathon asked if my friend were from San Diego. She said, yes. She said she was visiting. The woman getting in shape for a marathon recommended some good places to go cycling.

Near the end of the bicycle ride, the clouds cracked open and drizzled on us a little bit. A few drops. But this was disconcerting to my friend because about three weeks ago, she was struck by lightning. It's an interesting story, but hers to tell. The short version is this: she was in her house leaning on a wall or a counter. There was a storm outside. Lightning struck the house, conducted through to her, knocked her down, and when she got up, her ass was smoking, literally. So, it makes sense that rain clouds and drizzle are still disconcerting to her. We rode a little faster at the end of the ride, but she seemed ok. And while I suppose it could have been the weather or it could have been me, she seemed relieved to get in her car and shut the door.

After she left, the drizzle ceased. I rode my bike around downtown, eventually stopped and had a beer at a brew pub where I know the bartender. After an hour or so of small talk, I decided it was time to go home.

Again, it started to drizzle. I kept riding. The drizzle became rain. I kept riding. I was on the bike path on LaPorte Ave when the rain became a downpour. The rain was cold and stung when it hit my bare arms. I stopped under a tree, but I was still getting wet. I looked around and found nearby a small, empty, blue and white building with wide eaves and a dry sidewalk in front of it. I rolled my bike back to the building, and I stood on that dry sidewalk. A sign in the little building's window said, "The Bike Library has moved." A map on the sign showed how to get to the new Bike Library's location. I waited about ten minutes before the rain slowed enough that I felt comfortable riding again.

This time I rode with the idea of future shelter from the rain in mind. I headed south on Howes Street and found myself riding past my bank. It was still raining; so I decided to stop and get some cash. The ATM in front of the bank is sheltered by a roof and concrete walls, so I didn't have to enter the bank. The ATM is right next to the bank's front door. As I completed my transaction, and shoved my wallet back in my pocket, a large older man in a big, green shirt was shuffling--he might have been in pain--up to the bank door. The rain was subsiding, but I made an attempt at small talk. As he opened the bank door, I asked him, "Do you think it'll keep raining?"

He turned and looked at me, grinned, and with a grandfatherly chuckle behind his words, he said, "I don't know. I've still got about four miles to go." And then, before I could say, "What?" he stepped into the bank.