They don’t say, “You’re not supposed to do that.” But they look at you as if you were a puppy who just dug a hole in the mud.
They don’t say, “You’re crazy.” But they lean their bodies a little bit further back than normal to ensure the disease doesn’t spread.
They don’t say, “What was it like?” But they offer sympathy:
“I’d help you if I could.”
“Were you safe?”
“That’s a pain.”
But they don’t know.
They don’t know what it feels like to push the “rules” – to act in a way that ever since the age of twelve, we’re told we can’t.
They don’t know the feel of a hundred thousand raindrops – a hundred thousand blessings – falling upon you.
They don’t know the thrill of dodging puddles, branches, and old ladies.
They don’t know the rush that happens when your brakes get wet and you can’t stop quite as fast as you normally do.
They don’t know what it’s like to walk inside dripping wet and covered in mud with the biggest smile on your face possible.
They don’t know how alive I am.
But that’s OK.
I do. I’ve biked through the pouring rain, and I think I’m going to do it again.