The sound of the rain woke me this morning. It wasn't the subtle sound of romantic poetry and bad 80s love ballads. This was loud ticked off rain, banging into the side of the house with attitude. I'm going to run in this, I thought. I'm going to get up, get dressed and go outside in this and start running. I'll probably be trying to run home. I'll probably spend the entire workout thinking of ways to avoid doing the thing that I'm already in the middle of completing. My mind works like that.
The first peal of thunder didn't hit until I was finished with the morning paper and planning my clothing strategy. This was after a discussion with my son, who was not joining me, and my daughter, who was.
"Do we do this when it's thundering?" she asked.
"We do." I answered
"Are we crazy?" she asked.
"Maybe a little." I answered.
So, we layered up. Long pants, thick socks, sneakers that we didn't care about, two shirts and a jacket. Baseball hats. Spy wear belt. Reflector patch.
Here's the thing. I don't look good in running clothes. Spandex was not made for people of my dimensions. I go to my workouts in outfits vaguely reminiscent of sausage casings, but in teal and hot pink. With the exception of the time I met one of department heads unexpectedly at the run, I don't really care. I know that I will spend my run counting steps, wishing that oxygen came in a chewable form and thinking that I really wish the time slow-downs would happen on the walking portions rather than the jogging ones. Five steps out of the parking lot, my clothing is the last thing on my mind.
Until today. Today, I spent most of my run thinking about the wonders of textile engineering. As I slogged through very cold rain, I marveled at how comfortable I was within my turquoise tourniquet. It only took five minutes for my various layers to be soaked through but I stayed warm and comfortable. The leggings and shirt seemed to absorb the water without holding on to it. I didn't finish the run with four extra pounds of fabric, a fate my co-runners in sweats seemed to suffer.
It was still raining when we finished the two and a quarter mile loop. It was still raining when I got home, peeled off the layers of synthetic magnificence and hopped into the shower. I was so cold that the hot water felt like ice on my bright red hands. It was still raining two hours, four pancakes and a cup of coffee later.
In fact, rain was still angrily pelting down at lunchtime when I looked across the table at my daughter and smiled. We had gotten up at the crack of dawn, layered ourselves up and gone for a run – a little bit crazy but together.
Maybe next time I'll let her borrow some of my spandex.
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