Dare the rain.

 

I

t has always been said that the pouring rain should find you on your way home. That way you are assured of a warm cup of hot chocolate, a cold bath and hot food. Life however, is not that predictable.

The pouring rain suddenly gushed out of the sky when I was 16 km into my 100km cycling ride to Zirobwe. For the next 6km I was in the eye of a ferocious down pour.

Let it be known that I had a choice. I could have taken shelter by the numerous shops that flew past me. I could have turned back and headed home. I could have simply hailed any of those empty public vehicles that kept slowing down. I chose to brave the rain and dare her to do her worst.

The rain pelted me. She lashed me.  She tore me to watery shreds. At some point I really felt that I had insulted her grandmother. Each drop of rain felt like a nail being hammered into my Acoli skin. There was this particular one that found its way through my helmet. It slammed onto my skull and reverberated through my body. In that cold, I felt a warm sensation that only spelled of doom and gloom.

It was windy; I now know what it means to ride a paperweight bicycle in the middle of the Ugandan version of a tropical storm. I was in danger of being blown away into the lush green vegetation that seemed to have been painted from Busuukuma, Namulonge to Bugema. I held onto my bicycle for dear life.

When rain is pouring like she was pouring that Thursday noon, the tarmac road ceases to be a friend. Sudden application of the brakes can bring upon you the kind of accident that would cause your mother to shudder in wonderment. I could not ride fast. With each slow stroke of the pedal came a torrent of rain. My shades were misty and all I could do was force my eyes to focus on the tiny pebbles that make up the pedestrian paths of the Zirobwe road.

Ridding down hill was as painful as it was pleasurable. The rush of air was like furious unending slaps on my face. My shoes soaked so much water that they too become a burden. In spite of all that, I smiled through the downhill torture; the steady pace at the valleys was as welcome as welcome can be: until I had to cycle uphill.

On any given day, cycling uphill is a test of endurance. On this particular day, that uphill ride was a test of a word that is yet to be invented. My lungs will tell you that they were forced to dance to unique beats of air. My thigh and my feet will swear that the generation of propulsion power is not kids play. My shoulder will just shrug and say this is what I was built for.

My heart beat so furiously that at one point I feared it would burst. My fingers were screaming in protest, as they had to grip the handlebars with all the mojo that they had. Once I got to the top of the hill, there was no sigh of relief to enjoy. There was another downhill to endure.

After that unforgettable 6km, the sun shone with all her glory.  I peddled with village greed; I gathered all my strength and channeled it to my reluctant legs; I needed to soak in all the heat from her, before she shied away into the clouds.

I did get to a Zirobwe that was as dry as dry can be. In my excitement I elected to ride 5km into the village that is Zirobwe. The pure innocence that flows from each homestead along the path was a joy to behold. There was this child swinging from a goat rope tied to a Jackfruit tree. The smile on her face was priceless. She swung like she owned the wind through which she sliced.

 As I rode back home, I was smiling from ear to ear as I thought about the grass thatched huts; the long abounded homes; the mosque next to a church; the happy go lucky children playing by the roadside; I did thank my lucky stars that I dared the rain to do her worst.

 Oh yes! I did get my warm cup of hot chocolate.