Here's how it went down...
West Knoxville to the Clinch River: Steady rain.
Clinch River to Jellico: Dripping fog.
Jellico to Lexington: Pouring buckets.
Lexington to Columbus: Spitting drizzle.
Columbus to Broad Ripple: Intermittent squalls.
The highlight of the trip occurred in the mountains just south of Corbin, Kentucky, when the rear end of the blue Pontiac G8 some seven car lengths ahead of me suddenly hip-faked to the right then back to the left as the whole car pirouetted across the left lane and into the median in a giant spray of red clay before coming to rest, ass-end-first, on the far side of the ditch. I don't know whether he was running his cruise control in the rain or if he got bored tailgating the pickup in front of him and booted his six-liter V8 a little too enthusiastically for the conditions, but it was pretty spectacular, especially as it happened more or less right in my lap.
A bit further on, after being passed by a fart-can-equipped Civic and a Pontiac Solstice who had apparently decided that standing water on the freeway was no reason to not engage in a little bout of "Yeehaw!" with each other, I passed an unhappy-looking young man whose mint-green Eclipse had backed into the concrete median wall. Johnny Law arrived about the same time I did. Apparently Junior found out that in a front-wheel drive car in the wet, if you are afraid you are going to overcook a corner and lift abruptly, you're headed for the wall, bumper stickers first. When Swedish rally car drivers do it on purpose in Saabs on dirt, it's cool; when you do it by accident in a Mitsu on I-75, it's not, okay Mr. Fast'N'Furious? Incidentally, shortly thereafter I passed the fart-can-equipped Civic, now driving in the right lane in a much more chastened fashion, having passed the same slightly crumpled object lesson.
It was about 380 miles on the odometer, about five-and-a-half hours, and I don't think my wipers were off for more than ten minutes, total, and the pavement looked dry enough to use the cruise control only on about a 20-mile stretch southeast of Louisville; the screw that sticks out the back of my shin rubs funny on the tendon when I have to keep my foot on the throttle for more than a couple hours, too. Ouch.