I can barely see out of my hood. The rain doesn’t quite drive; that implies it is going somewhere, and going somewhere fast. Rather, it feels like the rain hangs, suspended, in midair, waiting for me to collect it on my face as I bike past. I keep my head down as much as possible through the rain. I focus on the ring of light cast by the flashlight attached to the handlebars. I’m in a suit of armor against the rain. It took me a few weeks into my first winter to realize what was and wasn’t essential for biking in the rain. Rain coat, rain pants, waterproof gloves, backpack cover, lights. A mud guard on the back is not essential, if you’re already wearing rain gear, but it doesn’t hurt.

I’m coming up the hill on 40th. I5 passes high above. Into the suspended rain the sign casts an orange glow; from down here, from this side of the bridge, I can’t see the sign itself, but in this rain I can see the orange glow of its letters refracted through the rain.

It feels as if all things in Seattle flow through this intersection. Inexplicably placed, confusingly ordered, only some ways in and some ways out, and every turn takes you somewhere completely different. Once you choose which way you’re going, you better be right. And when it rains, it feels as if all water, too, will flow through this intersection, pouring in from four of the streets, and out the bottom street.

Confusingly, four of the five streets coming in and out of this intersection are called Northeast 40th Street, the fifth being 7th Avenue Northeast.