Last Saturday, Sydney was drenched in torrential rain which frequently veered sidways due to hurricane-strength horizontal winds. Trees were falling and roofs were lifting, while the occasional sound of fire engines rushing off to emergency calls competed with periodic roars of thunder.
This was an opportunity too good to pass up, given my fetish with running in the rain.
So, as soon as C went to his afternoon nap and L settled in front of the TV, on went my trusty pair of Brooks joggers and out went my ass. Continue reading
Due to a weird psychological disorder, I just love running in the rain. Faced with a torrential downpour outside the window, even the most ardent multi-milers would recoil at the thought of pounding the pavement in that condition. Water drenching down your upper body, mud flicking up your lower body and general discomfort all over the body – these are just some of the consequences of running in the rain, and all that before you even reach the front gate of your house to begin your run!
I, on the other hand, harbour a certain romantic notion about running in the rain. It began with my very first race more than 20 years ago when I was in senior high school. Despite the hellacious weather conditions for the entire 14km journey, I revelled in the mystic atmosphere where everything was hauntingly grey, and every runner was eerily silent – all I could hear was just the monotonous sound of squishing steps working in tandem with the pitter-patter of the falling rain. To cap off the experience, as I approached the finishing line from the top of a hill looking down at an ocean, the sight of the famous Bondi Beach of Sydney covered in ghostly mist just gave me the goose bumps, as well as my second (and third) wind to finish the race strongly. Continue reading