Soaking up the atmosphere
“Each wet sock is a stinking foot soldier in the war against postmodernism.”--A guy named Marc to Dean Ottati, quoted by Ottati in his book The Runner and the Path: An Athlete’s Quest for Meaning in Postmodern Corporate America (Breakaway Books, 2002), p. 21
In today’s long run, the foot soldiers formed a regiment. Our group—and some ominous looking storm clouds--gathered early this morning outside Lloyd Hall. Dave--still hoping that he could help us keep our socks dry--changed his original plan to have our long run take in some of Belmont Plateau. Instead, we would run the Schuylkill River loop, one full lap and as much of a second lap as we could manage in two hours.
Just as we started, the sky opened up, and the rain washed away any illusions of dry socks—or dry shorts, singlets, skin, hair, internal organs, and perhaps even auras. The paving stones in front of the Art Museum were slick with puddles, and I felt uneasy about slipping. But I felt even more uneasy with letting Nancy and Rebecca get too far ahead. When that happens, a psychological barrier arises and I lose my confidence in my ability to catch up again. So I swallowed my fear and kept them in sight, across the paving stones, across the entrance ramp to the Expressway, and across the bridge with a guardrail that feels perilously low in high winds, and more so in high winds and rain. Moving onto the street felt safer, however, and I remained with my companions as we headed out along the bike path.
We were on our way, still gingerly avoiding the puddles when possible, and making decent progress toward the Falls Bridge, when the faster members of our group came back, led by Dave, who warned us to turn around at the Montgomery Avenue Bridge. It couldn’t be that bad, we reasoned. Surely, we could somehow skirt our way around the puddles. But shortly after passing under the bridge, we saw what Dave meant. We’d be in at least a foot of water, and it was hard to say how much more, if we kept going. Listening to our coach—and our better judgment—we made a U-turn and started back toward Lloyd Hall, where we’d stop for a drink and continue along Kelly Drive.
By this time, water pooled into puddles ankle-deep, the rain showing no sign of letting up. And by this time, I was having fun. The lights of the boathouses created small havens of warmth in the morning gloom. Flocks of gulls and geese offset the green and gray of dripping trees, stone bridges, walls, and clouds. The smell of breakfast cooking wafted from some undetermined source. I began seeking out puddles and splashing through them, kicking up the water around me as I have when wading across the ford in Naylor’s Run Park. Rebecca remarked that all I needed was a bright yellow raincoat and rubber boots. The image of the child playing in puddles was perfect. I was a little girl, my inhibitions washed away by the river and the storm. An Outward Bound saying came to mind: “If you can’t get out of it, get into it.”
I got into it, and after a while found myself running faster with each puddle that I leaped into, feeling like the fairy-tale girl in the “seven-league boots,” the puddle water some sort of elixir, a fountain of youth. By the time we’d made another U-turn at Lloyd Hall and started back on West River Drive (Kelly Drive was just as waterlogged, Dave warned us), I was a full-fledged kid, skipping, clapping, fearless, humming rain songs from my past, then dredging up memories of snow songs—“Winter Wonderland,” “Sleigh Ride” and more. Slippery paving stones? No problem! Low guardrail? What’s to worry?
Running in a thunderstorm will do that to you. Running in a thunderstorm means discovering where you should have applied Body Glide. It means shivering and sweating at the same time. It means hair and clothes plastered to you as if you’d simply taken a dive into the river. It means your hands are too slippery to open your post-run power bar. It means recognizing that you are basically insane and that this is all right with you.
posted by DPMcManus @ 9:24 PM
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