Cesare isn't quite as skeletal as you'd think to look at him, between his cheekboney face and the sleek tailoring that displays, but gives away little. Still, Xel's grateful for the saddle, especially with the way he keeps shifting around before he gets himself situated. He'd probably have more sympathy for Cesare in the matter if trading function for style wasn't such a noble's choice--and less if it wasn't, in a former general's case, so symptomatic.
The rain and howling winds are strong enough that traffic is minimal, carefully crawling. He can tell it looks worse to Cesare, though, and that's doubly his fault. The horrible stinking poison-belting machines are moving so slowly that it's safe to taunt them even with a human on his back, and he ducks and weaves and races them on his way to the beach, for one thing, and for another, they keep nearly getting into accidents on sight of a horse and rider without a plodding chariot loaded with tourists, and the sounds of horns and skidding even make it above the weather. It's wonderful (and, although he's not proud of this, Cesare's terror spices the experience), but his course to the beach is, bobbing and weaving aside, overall a smooth and direct one.
And then, over the sands and flirting with the waves, his rider clinging for dear life, Xel runs.