The Rain Was Never the Problem Expectations, Responsibility, and the Strange Freedom of Letting Reality Exist I was standing beneath a small tree somewhere in Mexico, watching dark rain clouds move slowly across the mountains. A few kilometers earlier it had started with light drizzle — the kind of rain cyclists optimistically ignore because admitting reality too early feels emotionally unnecessary. Then the rain became heavier. The branches above me began leaking larger and larger drops, and my confidence in the tree slowly disappeared together with any illusion that this situation would magically improve within the next thirty seconds. The nearest town was still around ten kilometers away. In practical terms, there were only two possibilities. Either I stayed there indefinitely like some damp roadside philosopher, or I continued riding and accepted that both I and most of my equipment would soon resemble abandoned laundry. I turned toward the mountains and started cursing the we...