We saw them coming as we left Bellows Falls after lunch on Friday; a great gray wall of them marching at double time from the west.

The advance scouts took a few shots at us in Walpole, but their aim was poor and their rounds weak. We detoured from our planned route, keeping to 12 to head toward Keene rather than enjoy the scenic Connecticut River Valley vistas of Route 63, and kept a brisk pace trying to outrun the onslaught.

Our retreat soon became a rout, and we were overwhelmed by the enemy. The clouds hurled great gusts of wind; we swayed but did not fall. They pelted us with rain and hail, but we were able to flee the worst volleys before we taking any mortal wounds. The clouds withdrew and held their fire, but the lull proved to be a ruse before the final attack: a blinding soaking rain as we reached the town of Troy.

Finally, drenched and shivering but still riding, we crossed back behind the front lines in Fitzwilliam, and raced eastward. A wicked wind knocked small branches across our path, and even snatched up the very symbol of our nation from its perch on a utility pole along Route 119, and flung it into our path (That can't be good luck, running over a flag, but we did rescue two turtles earlier, so I'm hoping the karma all evens out).

Thunder and lightening cracked like a whip at our backs. I was nearly dry by the time I dropped Michelle off, and then got soaked again on my way back to Nashua. I had to hurry; I'd left my laundry hanging out to dry.