Red dirt swirled outside, coating with a fine layer the garden chairs now strewn across the yard. Just seconds earlier I’d managed with some difficulty to wheel my bicycle into the garage and lock the door. This wasn’t exactly cycling weather.
Growing up in Northern Ireland had not prepared me for mid-west American storms. Where I come from a windy day means you hold onto your hat and leave the umbrella at home; a worst-case scenario is perhaps the exposure of a badly secured comb-over. In an Iowa storm you fasten everything you can to solid ground, locate the nearest basement and pray for those with a hairpiece.