I make my way east on Highway 104 and end up on the up-n-down and forever winding Blackwater Road (US Highway 4).  It’s similar to what I’ve seen throughout New Hampshire. All along, nested amid the forests, are quaint and clean small towns.

There are roadside fruit and vegetable stands, American flags on the telephone poles and lamp posts, garage sales, cafes featuring sweet corn and homemade maple syrup, historical sights, a plethora of mom-and-pop shops, and a rest area with a bathroom that looks like a log cabin. (Hey, when you’re on the road, a public restroom that looks like a log cabin is a festive event!)

Just before Canaan, it gets misty, which for a motorcycle is worse than rain. (Rain picks up the slick petrochemical residue out of the asphalt and washes it away; mist picks it up and just leaves it there.) Now, when I come across wet pavement, I slow down, probably more than I have to, which is what I do now.

Cars are beginning to line up behind me so I figure I’ll pull over and let them pass. It’s the polite thing to do, right? Well, I can’t find a safe place to pull over because there’s either no shoulder, a muddy shoulder, a muddy driveway or someone’s lawn. The number of cars behind me is getting close to double digits and I’m starting to feel like a rude jerk.

Then a thunderstorm hits hard, really hard, and about a mile later I pull into a gas station and park under the roof next to the one gas pump. The lone employee manning the place, a young woman about twenty years old, is standing under the eave smoking a cigarette. I ask her if it’s okay if I leave my bike under the roof until the thunderstorm passes, that if a car comes in they can go to the other side of the pump. She says it’s okay as long as I don’t tell her boss that she’s smoking. (The boss turns out to be her dad.)

Twenty-or-so minutes later the rainfall slows down a little so I take off. As before, I’m going slower than the speed limit, there’s really no place to pull over, and cars are lining up behind me again. I truly dislike slowing the progress of other vehicles but take solace in the fact that I’m still upright.

Then, in a flash, it begins raining so hard again that I can barely see my own windshield. It’s like I’m riding through an out-of-control carwash and twelve pound shot-puts are smashing onto my helmet. I’ve no idea if I’m still going straight or where the next curve in the road is, and I’m guessing those cars are still lining up behind me. Now I have no choice but to pull over and wait for the storm to pass.

As I’m inching toward the side of the road, essentially blind, it occurs to me that this section of the road may not have a side to it. Moments later, my front tire goes over the side of the pavement and, of a sudden, I’m scared out of my wits. What if it’s a rocky cliffside that tumbles down to a raging river? I mean, I saw something just like that not too long ago!

So I scream the plea for help and safety known to motorcyclists everywhere: OH! SHIT!

As soon as my back tire goes over the side of the road, I stop in an unadulterated panic. I swear, I’m gulping air like it’s going to deliver me from doom. When the rain lets up a bit, I see I’m on a somewhat level section of grass that’s someone’s front yard, midway between the mailbox and a tree. I may be soaked to the marrow but, hey, I’m still alive. Still upright, too.

Today’s advice: Whenever you’re in a dire situation, scream that plea for help and safety as loudly as you can.