Entanglements and sloth conspired to stymie my aspirations to be get in a run/paddle this evening, coming off the lake as the sun was setting.  Not enough time in the day.  In the end, that probably worked out for the best, or at least that’s’ what I’ll tell myself as I’m writing this.  The truth is, getting an extra bolt for my kayak racks and getting things ready to take my red-headed niece kayaking tomorrow made an evening trip out of the question.

At least this made Juno happy.  She’s been yapping at me for the last few days.  Any husky owner out there might know the drill.  You sit down.  She starts talking at you.  You try to guess what she wants.  At best, I can figure that she’s tired of being cooped up in the house with exactly one walk since we got off the trail last week.

So, around 8:15 she got all crazy pants as I grabbed the leash and strapped her up.  I promised Atticus I’d take him for a cool down walk afterwards.  He’s no running dog, and his paws are still in heal mode.

As I crossed the street to the greenway and began the jog, a crack of thunder sounded in the distance.  The prophets of old must have made a racket predicting weather phenomenon.  Thunder meant angry gods.  Rainbows meant forgiving gods.

For me, the message should’ve been simple: I should’ve probably turned around and gone home.  But I’m not scared to run in the rain.  What evil could it possibly portend? If last week’s hike taught us anything,  we learned that just chugging through the rain until it stopped or we reached the terminus was usually the best strategy.

So, I kept running, and the thunder came closer and the lightning flickered slightly and the cool wind settled in the trees.  Still, I thought, I had time.  Maybe I’d cut the run short, but I’d like to get the three miles in.

I crossed Margaret Wallace to pick up the extra mile.  In the open space, the sky was greying more and more.  Juno made her fake poop stance that she does when she wants to stop, but I made her come on.  No time to dilly dally.

At the top of the hill on the return, there was a man in shorts and a long sleeve shirt.  He’s an old friend of mine, but we have since become estranged.  We chatted briefly, and as friends often do when they have drifted, we discussed vaguely that we should get together.  I would’ve stayed longer, but the thunder cracked with severity, signaling the time to turn and make it home.

 “Get dry,” I said.  “It’s about to storm.”  Then I turned and headed home.

In another time, this juxtaposition may have seemed metaphorical, even prophetic.  Like we were supposed to meet.  Like something important was supposed to happen.  But I’m not buying that today.  In The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, Tom Wolfe mocked the Merry Pranksters who saw metaphoric meaning in every mundane event.  Those spacey kids may have read this chance meeting followed by angry weather as the universe coming together to try to tell me or us something.  But the plain truth is, the storm was about to break, and I needed to get home.

The winds swirled.  Back across the road, the sprinkles started.  And then the skies opened.  In the last mile, I’m trying to motivate my best speed.  Tonight, I would just as likely brood over these events.  But as the rain came harder and faster, making keeping my eyes on the greenway in the dusky evening my only focus, there was no room for any of this.  Soaked clothes, slobbering spittle, a reluctant running partner—I pushed against the inevitable darkness of the storm, crashing through the overhead canopy of trees, obscuring my vision for anything more than ten feet in front of me.  The waning light shimmered in the mirrored asphalt, an imitation of clarity in the opaque falling night.

Soon, I came into the open, but the rain quickened one more time.  Turning this corner often ignites euphoria as I see the end and kick it up one more gear.  But there was nothing but me pushing against the rain.  Soon, I made it under the bridge long enough to stop my watch. I thought about running home instead of my usual walk, but what would it do?  What’s the point of rushing, of fearing, of overthinking the rain? Juno and I were already drenched, so we began the long, steady trek up the hill toward home.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JAMjMZCfmZY

As I came up the hill, I wondered if Atticus would get his walk.  The rain began tapering off.  Maybe as my run ended, the rain stopping means something.  But just as likely, it means that storms eventually stop, and this one happened to coincidentally stop near the exact time I needed to take Atticus outside.  Back on the street, the last glow of the sunset in the West signaled the end of the day.  It would be easy to think the universe gave me just what I needed.  It should be easier to simply observe that the rain just stopped.