It is raining today, a veritable downpour, a thoroughly soaking rain that dashed my hopes of working in the garden, and swirled them down the drain. So no weeding, or clearing or sowing today, but I still had to run. I have a training schedule that I am following in order to be prepared to run a marathon in October. That means no wimping out today, whatever the weather. All the same, I still had to work up the gumption to suit up and head out into the wet, gray day. After a flurry of motivational text messages (thanks, Monkey!), I was out the door.
Almost immediately, I realized that I wasn't going to be able to see. I have been unable to wear contact lenses due to a corneal issue for nearly a year and a half, so I had my trusty pair of librarian glasses on, which managed to both steam up and collect water droplets, conspiring to completely obscure my vision. About half way up the hill toward McLoughlin (less than half a mile into my run for those of you who don't live in the 'Couve') I just took my glasses off. Keep in mind, I am hopeless without them, but how much trouble could I get into on city sidewalks? Worst case scenario, I step in dog shit, which I wouldn't notice anyway (not being able to see), and would wash off in a matter of minutes in any case. And yes, Husband Dear, I did put my glasses back on for crossing the streets (well, most of them).
Not being able to see anything has its advantages. There are a lot less distractions, for one thing. I was able to turn my vision inward, and take stock of what my body was up to. I focused on my breathing - in through the nose one, two, three; out through the mouth one, two, three. I took stock of my ankles. They felt fine - it is amazing what good shoes can do for a runner. Knees good; hips, fine; even my neck, that I had stupidly locked up stretching for heavens sake, felt fine. Okay, good to know.
My plan was to run to the high school track, a a mile and a half away, do a mile on the track and head home. I had been more or less been avoiding puddles on the way there, but after my descent through the clover to get to the track, my shoes were thoroughly soaked, making me extra appreciative for how light they are - when they're dry. I made it to the track and started my laps, marveling at the painted lines, which meant as little to me as hieroglyphs. Why on earth they can't use numbers and letters that make sense, say "start", "200", or "400" is beyond me. Guess I won't be timing any 200s with much accuracy any time soon. I was all alone on the track, as no one else was crazy cakes enough to be out in the downpour. By this time, I was a symphony of sound - the slap of my soles, the squelch of my uppers, the whisper of my thighs in their running tights (which, let's face it, was more like girl scouts trying to start a fire), and the slap of my sodden jacket sleeves thawacking my forearms as I ran.
I felt so good three quarters of the way though my laps, that I decided to do another mile, which smacks of masochism*, but which I accomplished, none the less. After completing two miles on the track, I headed back up the hill. By this time I was soaked to the skin, or perhaps, my sweat met the rain halfway, but the result was the same. I had noting to loose, so I splashed through the puddles as wantonly as a toddler. As I ran through the neighborhood, idly taking in the impressionistic colors of spring as the pink of the cherry blossoms blurred into the emerald lawns, the smell of woodsmoke and laundry exhaust hung in the air. Those are very cozy smells, bringing to mind my plan to take a hot shower, throw on my gray sweatpants and curl up in a blanket to write this post with a mug of Evening in Missoula tea by my side. God, I love running. (But give me rain over hills any damn day of the week!)
*this turn of phrase was shamelessly stolen from Outlander by Diana Gabaldon, but I fervently wish I had thought of it myself.
Almost immediately, I realized that I wasn't going to be able to see. I have been unable to wear contact lenses due to a corneal issue for nearly a year and a half, so I had my trusty pair of librarian glasses on, which managed to both steam up and collect water droplets, conspiring to completely obscure my vision. About half way up the hill toward McLoughlin (less than half a mile into my run for those of you who don't live in the 'Couve') I just took my glasses off. Keep in mind, I am hopeless without them, but how much trouble could I get into on city sidewalks? Worst case scenario, I step in dog shit, which I wouldn't notice anyway (not being able to see), and would wash off in a matter of minutes in any case. And yes, Husband Dear, I did put my glasses back on for crossing the streets (well, most of them).
Not being able to see anything has its advantages. There are a lot less distractions, for one thing. I was able to turn my vision inward, and take stock of what my body was up to. I focused on my breathing - in through the nose one, two, three; out through the mouth one, two, three. I took stock of my ankles. They felt fine - it is amazing what good shoes can do for a runner. Knees good; hips, fine; even my neck, that I had stupidly locked up stretching for heavens sake, felt fine. Okay, good to know.
My plan was to run to the high school track, a a mile and a half away, do a mile on the track and head home. I had been more or less been avoiding puddles on the way there, but after my descent through the clover to get to the track, my shoes were thoroughly soaked, making me extra appreciative for how light they are - when they're dry. I made it to the track and started my laps, marveling at the painted lines, which meant as little to me as hieroglyphs. Why on earth they can't use numbers and letters that make sense, say "start", "200", or "400" is beyond me. Guess I won't be timing any 200s with much accuracy any time soon. I was all alone on the track, as no one else was crazy cakes enough to be out in the downpour. By this time, I was a symphony of sound - the slap of my soles, the squelch of my uppers, the whisper of my thighs in their running tights (which, let's face it, was more like girl scouts trying to start a fire), and the slap of my sodden jacket sleeves thawacking my forearms as I ran.
I felt so good three quarters of the way though my laps, that I decided to do another mile, which smacks of masochism*, but which I accomplished, none the less. After completing two miles on the track, I headed back up the hill. By this time I was soaked to the skin, or perhaps, my sweat met the rain halfway, but the result was the same. I had noting to loose, so I splashed through the puddles as wantonly as a toddler. As I ran through the neighborhood, idly taking in the impressionistic colors of spring as the pink of the cherry blossoms blurred into the emerald lawns, the smell of woodsmoke and laundry exhaust hung in the air. Those are very cozy smells, bringing to mind my plan to take a hot shower, throw on my gray sweatpants and curl up in a blanket to write this post with a mug of Evening in Missoula tea by my side. God, I love running. (But give me rain over hills any damn day of the week!)
*this turn of phrase was shamelessly stolen from Outlander by Diana Gabaldon, but I fervently wish I had thought of it myself.
No comments:
Post a Comment