It's raining

You know what the best thing is about rainy days? I don't have to go running in them. 

If I were a ninja jogger, I'd be out in that mess right now, slogging around the trail down at Bartram Park, but I'm just an amateur runner, someone who runs because it's just a habit I've got into, and not because I was silly and made some promise OUT LOUD that I'd run every day no matter what. Thank god I've got that much sense, at least.

So today is a free day, hurrah! And I don't have to run. My body will object, of course, but that's what brains are for, to keep bodies from getting out of line.

I'm going to sit here on my comfortable butt and just listen to that wet stuff dribble down the outside of my house and revel in the fact that I am not going to be tying on my running shoes, looking for extra shopping bags with which to clean up after my dog, not going to be grabbing my cell phone, my iPod, my headphones and my car keys, all of which add at least five pounds to my pockets, making them flap at my sides when I run like little chicken wings, not going to be deciding whether it's worth it to bring the cooler and get the milk first or whether I should just walk into the grocery store, wet and stinking, and get it afterwards, not going to pee three times before I leave the house in order to avoid having to squat at the side of the trail, anxiously scanning both ways and practicing what to say for when I'm discovered in the woods with my pants down ("Thought I saw something valuable here, so I'm just taking a look at it, but I'm all done, now, so I'll just be running along,"), not going to be seeing the lady with the red hair out there in the matching jogging pants and sweatshirt, the guy with the hound dog named Jackson, the two probably queer guys who always look disdainful of my own mostly casually thrown together outfit--a shirt that says "You had me at woof" and shorts that are rusty black with holes in the legs--and who run like gazelles, not going to race down the trail to get back to my car before the episode of "Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me" is through and I have to stop laughing and start thinking about how hard it is to run in the mornings.

No, I'm not going to do any of that, because it's raining, and I love rainy days, almost as much as I love running.

Running down a dream

This morning I am sitting at the table on the patio at my home in Florida, waiting for my body to stop sweating so I can go inside. Sweat condenses into puddles wherever my body comes in contact with the chair or the table. I feel spongy, like I'm made of frogs. My legs feel like someone has been hitting them with ball peen hammers. Little uncontrollable muscle twitches run up and down my thighs. My face is flushed and I smell vaguely like vegetable soup. My husband came out a little earlier to give me a hug and then noticed the steam wafting off me and recoiled. "You've been running," he said.

Last week, after stepping on the scale in the bathroom, a combination of hope and dread in my heart (doesn't regretfulness use up any calories at all?), I came to the inescapable conclusion that I was never ever going to be the kind of person who is satisfied with a half cup of anything and so I started running again.

I had successfully quit running almost two years ago after we'd first moved here. I had lots of good reasons for stopping. It was too hot, there wasn't any good place to do it that didn't require driving to get there, and my feet hurt. Since then I've resigned myself to the heat (it's only jungle hot three months out of the year) as well as the lack of running trails (there are probably venomous snakes sunning themselves around every turn anyway) and found a foot doctor (funny how a really expensive pair of inserts can fix so much that is wrong with a person).

So I've officially rejoined the mouth-breathers on the side of the road, dodging traffic, school kids and stray dogs every morning. My own dog comes with me, and should she provide the wherewithal, I carry, in addition to my radio and headset, a bag of warm poop. Sometimes I like to imagine how it could become a useful slinging weapon should some felon decide I was worth an assault. (Here, you knave! Take this!)

Running is a way to reduce stress, or at least re-direct it. The constant panic that I feel when I run (I can't possibly be getting enough air to keep this up past the next segment on "All Things Considered") leaves no room in my head for other worries (what if my legs fall off before I make it back home?).

Running focuses my mind on what's really important. I don't care anymore about what my neighbors think of the outfit in which I've chosen to appear in public (baggy black sweatpants with artistic bleach spots on them and a t-shirt that's been washed so many times it's practically transparent) because all I want to do is get done running as quickly as I can in order to get the whole soggy mess off and camp under a cold shower.

Running is paradoxical. While it's the quickest way to get my required minimum daily exercise over with, it feels like it takes forever to accomplish. I set and re-set goals for myself every fifty feet (I'll walk when I get to the next driveway. Maybe when I reach the next beer can. I'll walk now).

Running is something that my body does with or without my brain's consent. There were times when I was sure I'd talked myself out of going for a run (It's too cold; it's too hot; it's too early; it's too late; I think I might be sick; I'll run twice as long tomorrow), only to find myself jogging along the side of the road once again and not really remembering how I came to be there. (So obviously, running also brings on short term memory loss. Probably this is a minus.)

Best of all, running means I can eat as much as I want whenever I want (choose between buttered popcorn or potato chips with sour cream? Heck no, I'm having both!) as long as I don't care what it is, since by the time I finish running I'm too hot and smelly to go to the store and get anything really good (I guess I'll finish up that bag of wrinkled carrots in the vegetable bin and pretend that they're cheese puffs).

Last night I dreamed that I was running through the woods. My legs felt strong, my breathing was slow and even, my feet gobbled up the ground, nimbly skipping over the path. I felt as though I could go on forever, never tiring. When I awoke I put on my shoes and my sweatpants and my hoodie. I grabbed my radio and my dog and went running.

It was hard. I had to stop and walk every other block to catch my breath. My legs were heavy and slow and it took forever to get back home. Sweat dripped off the ends of my hair, down my back and the sides of my face. It all felt familiar and absolutely wonderful. The best part is, there's a big barrel of cheese puffs with my name on it waiting for me in the kitchen.