Surviving the Storm

While Maintaining My Compulsion.

Should I, or shouldn’t I?

Tropical Storm Elsa was raging yesterday, but it was time for my morning run. The rain sheeted down at a wind-driven diagonal. I put on my running shoes as if this might effectively convey to the monsoon that it was time to wrap things up. I could have waited it out, but that would require patience and common sense, both of which have no place in the maintenance of my morning routine. I considered the two stationary bicycles and the elliptical machine in the basement, purchased precisely for days like this, when running outside is ill-advised or even impossible. But then, the line between ill-advised and impossible is, for me, a fine one; to be honest, as a compulsive person, I’m not the best judge of when I’m crossing it. I waited briefly, after which I baselessly imagined a calming, and opened the door.

The rain was heavy, and I was drenched within minutes. But… there was something pleasantly hedonistic about running through it. The iconic image from Woodstock of water-logged hippies rapturously cavorting entered my head. Were they genuinely delighted, or just stoned out of their minds? Did they feel miserable when it became clear there would be no drying off? At least this rain was warm, and not so blinding that I couldn’t see what was in front of me.

Then, miraculously, pelting eased into vertical steadiness.

I was already soaked and getting more so but it was pleasant, a gentle sopping. I started to think about things like the dream I had the night before, where I had been hired to coach our old summer pool club swim team and I had no idea what to do. Why would I dream this? I had mentioned the old swim coach casually in a conversation earlier, and seen an ad for online therapy with Michael Phelps. Are these random nuggets enough to cobble a dream? The fact that my mind was ruminating on the workings of the subconscious and not holy shit I must be insane to run in this meant the rain was now a persistent backdrop as opposed to a consuming existential main event.

Around two-thirds of the way through the run was when the storm shit really hit the fan. The wind picked up, driving a deluge that transformed the streets into rivers. I tried to dwell in the devil-may-care warrior moment, but reality could only be denied for so long before fretfulness set in. Have I ruined my running shoes? This was a terrible idea. My focus turned to my classically poor decision-making skills. All I wanted to do was get home.

Once inside, I peeled off my clothes, squished down the hall to the bathroom, and hopped into a shower both exquisitely toasty and intentional, after which I was able to dry myself off before having a second cup of coffee.

This will go down with other pigheaded experiences I’ve undertaken, like walking to a video store through a raging blizzard (the “My Little Ponies” VHS tape was due) and biking back from the beach rather than accepting a car ride during a lightning storm.

To satisfy habit, I sacrificed reason. Once again, I willfully placed myself at the mercy of nature. Should I have run? My shoes said definitely not, but force of habit gave me an enthusiastic high-five.

What can I say? Yesterday, I ran, and rather than becoming a cautionary tale, my luck continues to hold.