Three Times

I got soaked three times yesterday. Exactly three. The universe wasn’t subtle about it.

I woke up with two quick work things to knock out, then the day was mine—or so I thought. But I’d set a work lunch for noon, and I had a tattoo appointment at three. And as I’ve said before, I fucking hate appointments on my days off. I want freedom. No plan, no itinerary—just me, the sun, the wind, and instinct.

But the lunch mattered. It was my intern’s last day, and I wanted her send-off tied with a bow. I even invited my bosses. That’s who I am: I’ll put the good of the task over my own preference if it means a better outcome. Still, having lunch at twelve meant skipping breakfast, juggling a call with my dad, and missing out on my morning ride. My “day off” was already feeling a lot like work.

The tattoo appointment was different. I don’t mind the pain. Even when it bites, it lights up something primal. Ink isn’t just skin deep—it etches vision into the soul. My right arm’s hellscape is really coming together after another two hours of shading. But as I sat in the chair, chatting with my artist, I saw the storm roll in. Trees whipping. Clouds darkening. Then the sky cracked open.

Time to leave. She doesn’t keep her shop open, so I paid, smiled, and walked slowly to my bike. No dash to cover, no umbrella sprint—just letting the rain drench me as I readied myself. Cold. Freezing cold. But freeing, too. And if you think I slowed down to minimize the wind chill, you don’t know me. I pinned it harder.

By the time I got home, I was soaked to the bone but grinning like an idiot. I peeled off the wet clothes, hit a long hot shower, treated the fresh tattoo, got dressed, and went downstairs. Sunlight. Seventy-five degrees. Perfect riding weather.

So I geared up again, polished Lilith, and rolled out.

Santa Fe, in its infinite wisdom, considers water drainage a nuisance, so St. Francis Drive turns into a river every time it rains. Sure enough, traffic boxed me in, and a car to my right sent a tidal wave straight into me and my bike. Just like that—filthy again. Irritating as hell, but the ride is the ride, so I leaned into it. Thirty minutes later, I was mostly dry, still cruising.

Then came the third soaking. Out of nowhere—thin clouds overhead, sun still shining—and suddenly I was being pelted again. No storm, no warning. Just a little cosmic reminder.

Maybe the universe was telling me to watch how I write about rain on a Harley. Because it can fuck me up whenever it wants.