the man-machine rumbles,
precision of gears, chain, muscle and sweat,
a controlled breathing in step with cadence,
the count begins,
one, two, three -
which each revolution of the crank.

then it hits - that first sting
of wet that fell from too-heavy clouds
a thousand feet up -
it must have taken five minutes to get here,
to hit its mark.
the blood begins to pulse,
electric air crackles around as the instinct takes over,
and man and machine become fluid,
bound to one another as the second and third droplets hit,
their sound and feel the countdown to five,
when all will be loosed upon the road:
the fury of the storm matched by the fury of passion.

the fourth drop is quiet,
unremarkable,
this is when the racer draws breath.

then it hits,
and hell is released -
the flood of adrenaline has been prepped and is ready,
as legs piston and fingers tighten to white-knuckled ferocity,
the eyes narrow, and face extorts in a mixture of pain and effort,
legs extend and pull up,
body tucked as small as it can be,
the energy transferred to the pavement,
as arch-enemies collide:
as he races against the rain.