If I were honest with myself, I would happily declare that running isn’t one of my favorite activities. It’s tedious even at its best. So, it came as a huge shock last week when it seemed like it was drizzling out and I still got ready to go for a run. K repeatedly requested that I not go if it was raining. He was sick, and he was concerned I would be more prone to catching the bug if I got dripping wet in the cold conditions that prevailed outside. I assured him that I would come back up in case it was pouring down hard. What better pretext to skipping the jog than nature being the roadblock? Even as I was putting my shoes on, you see, I was playing out an excuse to return within five minutes of heading out with a solid justification.
My plan, however, went off track.
When the first drops of rain hit me as I stepped out, I knew I was going to embark on a journey that was so unusual for me. For years, I have seen people out for a jog in the rain or cold and I’ve wondered what kind of perseverance they must possess to make them do such a thing. And that evening, even if it were just for those few meager minutes, I was one of them. It wasn’t going to be an everyday thing, I knew that. It was a solitary event, I could feel that. But, for then, that was enough to keep me going.
I ran in the cold. I ran in the rain. I ran as the chilly air of my beloved city caressed my already red cheeks. I ran as the spongy shoes let in the water from the puddles that I futilely jumped over. I ran enough to make my body feel hot even in that frigid weather. I ran enough to feel invigorated for days to come. I ran even when the songs stopped playing on my iPod. I ran even when I ran out of things to carry on monologues in my mind.
I ran and I ran and I ran.