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I like thunderstorms. The best thunderstorms are the ones over the plains in North Dakota and Minnesota. I love the way one can smell the rain coming when it's still a half hour away. This is usually accompanied by the noticable absence of birdsong. The fresh smell of cooler air approaching along with the sudden quietude is followed shortly by a faint rustling of the trees which gradually gains momentum. As a young boy I can remember that these were the signs that inspired a quickening of my pulse in anticipation. Sometimes when I was a considerable distance from home I knew that I would need to pedal hard on my bicycle in order to make it back without getting wet. Then the skys darken and the angry cumulonimbus clouds rise up in ominous grey tones, the best containing patches of red, yellow, and green. The wind picked up and began whipping the branches on the tree lined boulevards into an excited state. Distant peals of thunder began to be heard along with the occassional flash of lightning. Sometimes the warning sirens would start up all across the city indicating the possibility of a tornado. The adrenaline pumping, I pedaled furiously, the proximity of danger making me feel infinately alive. The air rushing past me as I pick up speed on a downhill run and the wind angering the trees as far as I could see only heightened my mood. It's close now. I estimate no more than a few minutes before the rain begins pounding my neighborhood with fat, wet, wind-driven rain. Will I make it? I can tell it will be close. As I race around the last corner, I can see my house down the block, and I can hear the rain approaching at a rapid pace, the sudden drop of air temperature and pressure confirms my apprehension that the precipitation is not far behind. I dismount as I enter my yard throwing my bike down and running those last few meters to my back door, the wall of rain nearly following me inside. This time I have remained dry and I will enjoy watching the summer storm from the comfort of my living room.