I'd left my bike at the restaurant overnight a few times before, either hitched a ride home with a server or manager or just cabbed it, but I wanted to get out and stretch tonight, if possible. Judging by my second two trips out to the dining room—dry shoulders from the hostess podium crowd—it just might be possible. Granted, there would be puddles, a slick spot or two, and my bike would need another thorough rubdown once I got home. But the wind in my face would make it worth it. It always did.
And, after a rain, the paths and bike lanes are usually devoid of traffic, completely lifeless. All mine.
Coach used to always tell us to choose our line, to stay focused on that, to not look anywhere else but the direction you're going.
It was advice that worked in the kitchen as well.
The line I could see ahead of me, it led past cleanup, out the back door, down the bike lane for half a mile before swooping and banking onto the path for nearly three glorious, empty miles.