Have rain, will muse

Most people don't get up at 8:00 in the morning on a Sunday--at least, not if they can help it.  Especially teenagers.  Go on Facebook before noon and odds are it'll be deserted, nobody foolish enough to log on that early to chat. 

Most people also don't get up at 8:00 in the morning on Sunday in the pouring rain to run.  Especially teenagers. 

Which only goes to show the exhaustively-proven point that I'm not most people.  Or most teenagers. 

Yes, I admit it, I did get up at 8:13 (had to hit "Snooze" on the alarm clock twice), pull on a long-sleeved synthetic shirt and shorts, and slip out the door for a drizzling run.  Nothing much, just a short warm-up jog followed by maybe ten hill repeats and another short jog back home.  It was cold; the wind would pick up every minute or so and blast my drenched body, making me wonder if an air-breathing shirt was really a good idea that morning.  Water beaded down my face and streamed down my neck, occassionally forcing me to blink and shake my head.  I swear a quart of water would fly out of my hair every time I did this.  But I noticed more than anything the serenity of the moment: the empty streets (only three cars on a normally busy nearby thoroughfare), the light harmony of the raindrops, the comforting shades of gray (always wondered, is it "gray" or "grey"?) in the sky...  I loved it, soaking-wet and all. 

Ironically, I hate running in the cold.  My friends taunt me when it's seventy degrees, asking my opinion on the "really great weather" we're having at practice.  They roll their eyes when I stand my ground and firmly declare my preference for warmer temperatures, ninety degrees with a slight breeze if possible, thank you very much.  They laugh when I run stiff-legged, bemoaning the infernally cold (70-degree) chill that stiffens my muscles and prevents my legs from fully extending. 

But last week I had my revenge. 

It was Friday, the last period at school.  Northern California was throughly socked in with thunderheads, with snow as low as several hundred feet above sea-level (I used to live in the foothills, and friends who still live up there are celebrating snow-days from school, lucky them).  I faced the approaching dismissal with growing apprehension, for then I'd be out in the cold for about an hour, running in the rain and hopefully retaining the biological capability to have children.  As the classrooms emptied and people streamed to their lockers, I changed in the bathroom and walked outside.  As I went to put my stuff away, I passed a fellow cross-country team runner (the season had ended a few weeks ago, but I knew he was still training for the upcoming track season in spring).  He took one look at my attire--laced New Balances, synthetic long-sleeved shirt I'd bought at at the high school Cross-Country State Finals in Fresno, and Cal-logo athletic shorts--and whistled softly.  "You going out today?" he asked.  I nodded and asked if he was.  "Hell no, man!  It's too cold!" he replied.  Shaking his head in wonderment, he left waving goodbye.  Despite the cold, I laughed; here I was, the guy who hated running in the cold, being told by this other guy, our team leader no less, who'd run in far worse conditions than this paltry rain, had just told me it was too cold.  Grinnig and shaking my own head, I turned and left for the trail. 

Why do I bring any of this up?  Oddly enough, poetry.  And before those of you who read the last post flinch and groan in despair, hear me out.  Personally, I think the weather is to blame.  I haven't written a word of creative writing since, what, last summer?  And now--BAM--twice in one month.  Anyway, I was standing in the rain yesterday, having helped my mother put up holdiay lights (isicles and sasssenach--does anyone know how to spell that?), and my mind went into spiritual hyperdrive.  There's something about the peace and solitude of a good rain, it just has a calming aura, a soothing essence.  I can't really describe it, though not for lack of trying, as evidenced in "There's Something About Rain", below:

There's Somthing About Rain

There's something about rain:

The soft pitter of leaves,

The constant patter on concrete,

The concentric impacts in the puddles...

Heaven's floodgates readily lend

Themselves to quiet

Contemplation. 

It's not much, but hey, I just ran at 8:00 in the morning on Sunday in the pouring rain. 

Running into Murphy

I suppose it's time I actually wrote a blog post detailing my daily life, as opposed to the usual review stuff that hardly qualifies this as a "web log" so much as a "vanity critics column". I was inspired to do so, quite frankly, by bowel trouble.

No, I did not shit on the Lincoln Memorial or anything so hilariously stupid as that. I'd best start at the beginning.

I like to think of myself as a thriving distance-runner fast approaching my first marathon (in reality, I'm still doing 5Ks, but half-marathons are definitely in the near future!), and so I try, every once in a while, to prove it by getting out of bed at an obscene hour (this particular morning it was 8:16-ish), lacing up my brand-spanking new New Balance neutral-cushioned boondoggle road running shoes ($80 on sale from Fleet Feet Sports), and, well, going out for a run. Actually, I try to finish at least 3-5 miles a day, in preparation for the upcoming school cross-country season (distances there vary between 3.1 and 3.7 miles, so they just call it 5K to make life easier). I'll go on at length about my extensive running past later.

Anyway, I do my little warm-up, stretch, and then BAM! I'm off like the wind, almost literally; it's probably the closest I've ever gotten to race pace in practice. Most runners I know will tell you that training as fast as you race is nigh impossible (at least, they should, otherwise I'm in trouble), so this was pretty amazing and awe-inspiring, so much so that I decided to, of all things, extend my planned short jog to its full extent (somewhere beyond 5 miles) to take advantage of this sudden boost in stamina.

And it worked. I ate those miles like Cream-o'-Wheat (which, btw, I've never had, always wondered what it tastes like, but it just sounds good here, so...); up hills, down hills, zigzagging through suburbia, past the old couples out for a walk and the occasional bicyclist (these tend to be the ones doing the passing, I'm afraid). Every once in a while, I'm graced with the view of some hot chick in a sports bra and miniskirt out for her own workout, but not today, which was fine by me - I was flying. I actually did sort of flap my arms going down one hill, got a honk from a passing motorist for that.

Anyway, back to the whole reason I'm writing an actual "web log" entry: so I'm coming up this last hill before this quarter-mile straightaway that I usually sprint home. I come off the hill, the burn in my legs kinda peaks and then lessens as my feet find level ground again, I go about a block and then - bleh.

Yup: my bowels spoke to me.

Not that I'm an intestine-whisperer or anything, but about then it hit me that I'd had oven-baked mandarin-orange chicken from Trader Joe's with brown rice and snow peas for dinner the night before, and I started to panic as I realized they (the chicken, rice, and peas, or what was left of them) wanted out, however was most convenient for them and least so for me.

So there I am, about another two blocks from my house (and a toilet!), my bowels coming unglued, sweat poring off me as I frantically guestimate whether or not I can hold it together for another five minutes, and I think: this would make a helluva blog entry. No kidding.

And for those of you who pooh-pooh the existence of Murphy, believe. Because I met his law in person.

As I'm waddling home, praying simultaneously that my boxers won't suddenly turn brown and that no cute girls suddenly decide to show up, my face feels wet. Thinking it to be sweat, I wipe my mouth, and look at the back of my hand. My nose is bleeding. Like, pouring.

All-in-all, not a bad morning. Sure, everything that could go wrong gastronomically almost did go wrong, plus the neighbors all think I've been mugged, but I got a near-perfect run (up 'til that moment) out of it, along with the reminder (in the form of a running high) that this is why we runners run. Despite the cramps and sores, the pain and injuries, the sweat and suffering, we hang in there for the run. It feels good, gives us that sense of accomplishment those high-falutin' team-building ropes courses always talk about, and that makes all the difference.

ManEating(and Running)Badger, signing off.

Oh, how could I forget? Here's to Lee (her blog, "Don't Bite Lee" (sounds like good manners), here: http://esaypoems.blogspot.com/) and her joyous and selfless recognition that a poor, lowly (and man-eating) badger commented on one of her posts. Please visit, and tell her the (man-eating) badger sent you ~!^ I'm so obsessed with that emoticon, I don't know why... anyway, her blog's great, I'd love to meet Lucy, I have a white lab-mix myself, Tanner (that's his name, I know, tons of imagination there) that I love to death despite that fact that I'm allergic to dogs. But I'll save all that for another day.

Cheers!