The road becomes a greasy ribbon at times like this - the static grey sky drizzling down a slick, clinging wet haze into the air and a light lube onto the road surface.
Hanging back from the car in front, every passing car filming my ride goggles with a fine spray kicked up from its tires, I try and keep enough of a distance so that a sudden stop doesn't result in me fighting and probably losing the battle to keep the bike upright in a panic stop. This pisses off the drivers behind me, intent on their meetings and their cell phone conversations, annoyed that I am not treating the HOV lane like a fast lane. They're in a hermetically sealed heated box, and the worst that can happen to them is that someone distorts their bumper and they need to sue someone to get a new paint job. I'm fighting to keep my right leg from going solid enough to make braking impossible, and feeling the heat drain from my fingertips.
Damp makes cold EAT into you, but the adrenaline tang of riding like this drives that away. The rain intensifies and soon I'm driving by the red glow of taillights ahead and the vague, dark shapes that represent cars. The road underneath me feels like glass someone's sprayed cooking oil on, thanks to the decision by the D.O.T. to use a slick concrete with fine grooves cut in random, could have possibly been straight lines. This lane is the best. The others are positively suicidal to try and drive when it gets greasy. So I'm here. And I'm pissing people off.
The guy alongside me, sipping on his convenience store coffee mug, sees the FXR blazing in a cloud of mist, me with my head down, wiping my goggles free every three seconds with my left thumb. He sees the guy behind me threatening to tailgate me.
I look alongside. Biggest threat is people changing lanes into the side of you, so I look. See a face, distorted by streaks of rain blown back by the wind. Working class guy. In a work truck, but he's a rider. He clocks, accurately, what's going on.
Slows down and swerves in behind me, cutting off the guy behind me. I hear the honking as Mr. Corner Office in his leather-seat Lexus has to slow down even more.
I clock my rearview mirror on the right, which affords me the best view. He's nodding to me, holding back, watching me. Blocking anyone from ramming me up the ass.
I give him the thumbs up. Then I go back to watching the line of cars on my right, the road ahead.