The windshield wipers moved at the speed of a marathon runner's pulse. Tail lights ahead flickered from individual pairs to blurred groups of four and six, then back again between each swipe of the wipers. Tires threw water into wheel wells with hurricane force, the express spray fountaining into the air where it mixed with driving rain to further reduce visibility.
Familiar bends in the road came up by surprise, hidden in the early morning darkness and sheets of falling water. The radio was drowned out by the thump of wipers and drumming of rain. The 120 cubic feet within my car was a universe unto itself - somehow managing to slip along without incident.
It is on mornings like this that I think workdays should be governed by the rising and the setting of the sun - not the hands of a clock.
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