From my experience there is no art to running in the rain. Some liberation, maybe. An unwanted cooling effect when it is 40 or 50 degrees outside. A brutal saturating heat when it is 80+. Nimbleness dodging puddles, perhaps.
Art though? Again, I vote no.
In the past two weeks my running picked up, mostly do to two other guys I’m now running with. Distances are increasing, speed is picking up, and, yes, last Thursday we ran in the rain. Temps clung on to the mid 40s as we started out and a decent, soaking mist came down.
I was ill prepared in my whisking short-sleeved shirt and running shorts, with an interior cotton-lined rain coat over that. Mid-six-mile-run I was soaked inside (by sweat) and out (rain plus a car splashing me with a puddle). So, perhaps if there is art, it may be in dressing for running in the rain.
I must admit, there was some manly joy to be had knowing we were the only three committed runner out on the bridge loop during lunch hour on a random Thursday. I will not lie, this small act of insanity, running in a cold rain, is one of the small rewards I receive from the act of doing it.
It is also good to know that I am recommitted to running as the guys I run with talk marathons and distance and conditioning. I was starting to doubt my commitment to return after injury.
Once I finished the sopping run I went and did a bit of meaningful work (of which I’m capable of writing a whole vaguely written post since there is confidentiality involved. And if I can’t write the post, I am sure some of what I am learning from this job will flavor other topics). Then I went about winding down the second half of my stay-cation week.
Other ‘art projects’
I practiced the art of painting walls and ceiling without drop cloths. (Who knew I was such a dare-devil and so handy with a roller and brush?) I was pleased with the results of color choice in the dining room and a little mixed on the bedroom. Perhaps I shall post pictures soon.
I also listened to the artist(s) The Eels on an album I bought while painting. I effing love The Eels and lead singer Mark Oliver Everett is a fascinating person to know about if you know nothing about him.
But anyway . . . beyond that there was the art of nephew watching. He stayed the night Saturday. We started to watch Netflix, where I practiced the art of being a very still body pillow as he almost immediately went to sleep. Then there was the art of nose rubs and happy mornings as he woke me up inches from my face, smiling at me and asking me, “cuddle?”
His art of starting a day is amazing. We laid and laughed and played a good twenty minutes before I got him his milk and cereal and me my coffee (art pro-tip on coffee, two Truvia and two teaspoons of powdered dairy creamers).
Eventually, my mom, his gee-gee called and we went to a local amusement park’s fall festival. The nephew went through mazes, received treats, and made memories for us all.
I even got in a four mile run, this time sans rain, afterward.
Overall, a rather uneventful week, I believe, as I look back at my time off. I must plan better the art of vacation.
Looking at it all, the running and painting and time spent with family though, there is a certain beauty in the mundane art of everyday living.