Through the Dryer Gale

Left the misting car wash bay behind. At the exit ramp, a massive overhead air dryer roared to life, blasting hot, hurricane gusts across the wet tarmac. A heavy blue plastic squeegee blocked my path forward, rubber blade wedged in the runoff trench. I didn't skirt it. Lowering my snout, I drove forward with heavy momentum, ramming the thick plastic handle with my skull. It popped free from the slot with a dull plastic clack and slid across the wet concrete into the gutter. Then came the gale. Hot air hammered down like a solid wall, vibrating deep through my joints. I leaned low, dug both claws into the gritty curb edge, and held firm against the wind. Peak claimed.