A day in the rain

There's something about biking in the rain that can really trigger a little depression.
Today, it was one of those days, just trudging on, slowly, a bit like biking in a swimming pool, that's how thick the rain was. Add to this gray skies, horrible traffic and cold and you have the perfect cocktail for misery.

Stay enough in the rain and you forget anything else can be real. I ride and ride and seem to never get anywhere. Cars honk me, cars stop roll down the window and yell at me, cars stop in weird, unexpected places. Breaks squick but do not hold as well, breaks miss, my hand on a car saves me from the fall. More honking.
Again.
Again.
Again.

I deliver the bags in mortal silence, trying to flash a professional smile and mumble a good morning. It's not them, it's the rain. The only victory is getting home safe, taking a shower and putting on warm clothes. It's the only thing that can make this day ok...I pity the bastards who live in such a climate all the time. But make no mistake, this rain is not like the British rain [ which is more of a fine drizzle that seems almost playful, yet probably just as annoying in time] nor it is the Amsterdam's rain [ which does not last and is defeated daily by bike commuters of Amsterdam that, in time, has lost its mojo] it is a different altogether more perverse rain. Yet I pity the bastards because I know that tomorrow I might see the sun and if not the next day or the next most probable as for them...who knows?

It's a lost opportunity to talk about rain without mentioning "Ray Bradbury". So I shan't.
"The Long Rain" is a short story about four people trapped in the jungles of Venus, walking through constant rain, trying to get to a SunDome and salvation. It's a very powerful story because nothing actually happens, it just rains and rains and rains and these people break under its tension one by one. I leave you with the first paragraph:

THE rain continued. It was a hard rain, a perpetual rain, a sweating and steaming rain; it was a mizzle, a downpour, a fountain, a whipping at the eyes, an undertow at the ankles; it was a rain to drown all rains and the memory of rains. It came by the pound and the ton, it hacked at the jungle and cut the trees like scissors and shaved the grass and tunneled the soil and molted the bushes. It shrank men’s hands into the hands of wrinkled apes; it rained a solid glassy rain, and IT NEVER STOPPED.

PS: This fine gentlemen would probably disagree with my opinion on the rain!