The Weight of a Forecast

I wake at 8:30 a.m. to the steady murmur of rain against the window. Not a storm, not a dramatic downpour—just the kind of patient, uninterrupted rain that seeps into your plans before it ever touches your clothes. Breakfast is slow to appear, and I sit watching the courtyard dissolve into gray.

The forecast is unequivocal: rain today, rain tomorrow, rain for several days more. Even the owner confirms it with a knowing shrug. Yesterday, it seems, was the exception—the single clear day between long curtains of water.

I had imagined a different route for today. Northwest of here lies Tskaltubo, once a celebrated Soviet spa retreat, now a haunting landscape of abandoned sanatoriums. Beneath the earth, the vast chambers of Prometheus Cave stretch, with illuminated stalactites reflected in underground lakes like constellations turned upside down. And further west, near the archaeological remains of Nokalakevi, hot springs steam quietly beside medieval fortress walls.

All of it would require walking. Parking the motorbike and venturing out on foot. In this weather, it feels less like exploration and more like punishment.

By 10:30, it is raining harder. By noon, nothing has changed. The hostel is full tonight; even if I wished to stay, I would be relegated to a sofa. And if the rain is to continue for five days, waiting becomes its own form of stagnation.

Reluctantly, I surrender the day’s ambitions. I pack. At 12:30 p.m., I ride out into the downpour.

The Road to the Coast

The first hour feels like driving underwater. The world narrows to the small arc of visibility allowed by a fogged visor. Water seeps in through seams I had trusted. The trousers, bought years ago, surrender first. Then the boots. Soon, there is a thin, undeniable layer of water between my socks and the soles. Even the jacket, once proudly waterproof, begins to darken and cling.

The Pinlock I thought I had repaired leaks again. The visor stays half-open, rain slipping inside from both directions. My gloves grow heavy. Taking one off would mean never being able to fit it back on.

Traffic adds its own tension. Drivers speed past without headlights, their silhouettes swallowed by spray. Visibility is poor, but caution seems optional here. Water plumes from their tires; overtakes appear suddenly, dangerously. In moments like this, irritation mixes with fatigue. Where did they learn to drive like this?

The landscape flattens as I approach the lowlands. In several small towns, houses stand elevated on stilts—quiet proof that flooding is not rare here. Marshland spreads unseen beyond the road’s edge. Even the air feels saturated, as though land and sea have agreed to blur their boundaries.

There is nothing to do but continue.

Between the Market and the Sea

With roughly thirty kilometers remaining, the rain finally softens. The last stretch toward Poti is almost disappointingly straightforward: a long, flat line toward Georgia’s Black Sea gateway. I arrive around 3:00 p.m., soaked from the waist down but intact.

Maxim is waiting.

We wander through the local market first. He buys fruit and wine; I am offered a taste of homemade cognac, poured discreetly into a recycled plastic bottle. It burns warmly—an antidote to the chill that has settled into my bones. I make a mental note to replace my nearly disintegrating socks as soon as possible; after months on the road, they are giving up.

Since the rain has paused, we decide to attempt the coast before heading home. The Black Sea is close—so close that you can smell it—but access proves impossible. Flooded paths block the way, and strong winds push the tide inland. The horizon is iron-gray, restless, almost indistinguishable from the sky. We watch from a distance, unable to reach the shore.

It feels symbolic: arriving at the sea without touching it.

Small Generosities

Back at Maxim’s apartment, I hang every garment I own to dry. The room transforms into a temporary laundry forest—jackets, trousers, socks suspended in quiet surrender. Something is humbling about seeing your entire life reduced to damp fabric and a motorcycle helmet.

Around 8:00 p.m., I met Liya from the Moto Georgia group. She arrives with a small dog tucked inside her jacket, its head peeking out curiously at the world. She hands me provisions for the road: churchkhela—walnuts threaded and coated in thickened grape juice—and dried figs, dense with sweetness and patience.

Before saying goodbye, we stop in front of Poti Cathedral. Its pale façade stands luminous against the darkened sky, domes rising above quiet streets. We take a few photos. She must leave early; tomorrow she has her motorcycle license exam.

The rain does not resume that night, but the air remains heavy with it.

Forward, Even When Soaked

Today was meant to be about caves, ruins, and thermal waters. Instead, it became a study in endurance.

There are days when travel expands you—when landscapes open, when discoveries feel cinematic. And there are days when it contracts to the simplest act: keep moving. Accept the discomfort. Adjust. Continue.

The sea was near, but unreachable. The plans were beautiful, but postponed.

And yet, I arrived