Something odd to report: a run.
The good news is that I ran just over three miles without the slightest twinge in my calf. It was a comfortable jog, and no more, but after six frustrating weeks of injury, that was all I was hoping for.
The evening seemed bright and fine when I left the house, but my cherished GPS distance monitor watch was showing just 1.4 miles when the rain began. It was so unexpected that I presumed it would be limited to a few renegade drops. But a minute or two later it was belting down. Big, heavy, wet splashes.
I used to hate rainy runs. But then I realised that it really didn’t matter. Whatever the weather, the first thing I do when I get home is pull my clothes off and have a shower, so a bit of rain – or a lot of rain – is of no importance. I like it. When I see people bent against the wind, wrapped in plastic to seal their flesh from the wet – while I amble past in next to nothing, giggling like a naughty child, it illuminates some of the mysteries of running, and the difference between us and them. For them, rain is misery and inconvenience. For me, liberation and elation. I need to believe that the rain is a metaphor.
I ran through the deer park and turned back towards home as it continued to pour. I was tiring now, and an ache was slowly reaching around my ribcage like an ever-tightening snake. But nothing to worry about. To be expected after such a long lay-off. Token protests that I slapped down as I plodded back through the puddles on the back lane. Grinning.
