Rain. Rain has a very distinctive taste. By that I don't mean catching raindrops on your tongue or drinking from a rain barrel. I mean instead the taste of it in the air. Snow you can smell when it's coming but rain you can taste is coming.
Another thing about rain is that it hurts. Well, at 70 miles an hour it hurts. It was in anticipation of this that I sat at the overlook high in the Cascades appreciating the valley - who's name escapes me at the moment - and tasting the rain in the air. I figured I had about an hour before it hit. Yeah, I know, that's a ridiculous thing to say, "reckon ah gots 'bout an hour for the rain hits". Margaret pokes fun at me when I put forth such foolishness as well. But she knows exactly what I mean; she can taste the rain as well.
Unlike me, she has the good sense not to put herself into those situations that will likely result in being rained on at 70 mph. so it was alone that I sat tasting the rain. The V-Twin under me thumped as it idled as I decided there was no way I was to outrun the rain were I to leave then or 15 minutes later. So I reached down and turned the bike off. Then I sat. I sat and listened to the mountain's ambience of eagles, wind and distant river. I sat, with my eyes closed and tasted the rain. I smiled at the potential for metaphor of waiting for the inevitable deluge that was to come but, for right here, for right now if only for this short while, I was dry, I was comfortable and quiet; the world was peaceful. No one needed or expected anything of me; I had no schedule to adhere to or list of things to accomplish by the end of the day. It was just me, my bike, the mountain and the taste of rain.