Beginning a slow jog the other night, I waved to the security guard. Our exchange followed the usual script:
He: How many minutes tonight?
Me: Oh, I’ll probably go for about ___ minutes (I make my best guess)
He: OK, I’m timing you!
Me: Ha, ha, ha.
I reached the end of the block and rain started to sprinkle lightly. When the lightning began a few minutes later, I wondered if I should turn around sooner than I’d expected. But I welcomed the break from muggy weather, so I kept going. (On typical days, considering
Before long the downpour was in full force. Puddles merged to become small streams. Heading into the wind, I had trouble keeping my eyes open.
I turned into a long side street and had the road to myself. Drivers were deciding to wait it out. Running to the end of the street and back took about five minutes. Nobody else seemed to be about.
My shoes were heavy with water, but it didn’t make any sense to take them off. My shirt, on the other hand, seemed unnecessary. I hung it on a tree and began another lap. It was tempting to bare all, as it was dark and I was practically naked anyway.
Seven laps later, I had transformed into a world class runner. My pace under those inspiring conditions had gotten so fast that I was sure my watch had stopped when I checked my times under the streetlights at the end of the block. Best of all, I felt I could go forever.
The guard couldn’t believe it when I finally returned home, having been away about twice as long (and maybe three times as far) as I’d predicted. Another reason why the rainy season is becoming my favorite.
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