Biking home in the rain

I've done this before.  Northern California in the El Nino years.  Central England in ... well ... my English year.  I checked the forecast this morning, and came prepared to work, with waterproof gear and bike lights.  And actually, once past the intersection where I am likely to die, the ride is enjoyable.  Different.  Raindrops patter against my ears, muffling the traffic noises.  The gray clouds hang so low that the entire landscape has changed.  Quiet.  Gray.  Cooler.  This storm marks the breaking point of Indian summer.  Autumn, which has been hanging hesitantly high above the valley on the mountainsides, will swoop in quickly now, claiming the trees in the valley.  Not that I can see the mountains, with the clouds hanging so low.  Not that I would see them anyway, with my chin tilted as far down as is safely possible, to keep the water from washing into my eyes.  My glasses fog up, and I remember that on rainy days in California, I would wear contacts.  No matter.  Almost home now.  My feet are soaked through.  My jeans are wet where their nylon coating presses against them.  Backpack wet, but it contains just a lunchbox and some notes.  I park the bike, shake off the wet things, change into cozy pants, and sit on the sofa to listen to the water running through the rain gutters, muted by the traffic noises now, not the other way around.  And here I sit now, trying to bury my reality in words.  It will be a rough two or three days, I think.