I’ve been jogging this spring. Three times a week, heading out for about an hour and alternating walking and running, slowly shifting the balance so that there’s now, as of this week, more running than walking.
It’s actually been pretty good. The hardest part has been waking up before six to head out and be back before Mr. Pear Tree gets ready for work and I can take over with the kids. The last month or so there have been an increasing number of late jogs, completed only after he gets home from work, or later in the day when my mum can watch the kids.
But this morning, for the first time in a number of weeks, I triumphed. I actually forced myself, groggily, out of bed when the alarm went off at 5:50 a.m. I dressed. I went downstairs and stretched (yes, I still do that, although it seems to have fallen out of fashion these days). I got my shoes on, and put my hand on the doorknob. As I did, I looked through the window…
And saw the rain. Not a drizzle. Not a spit. Real, legitimate rain.
And I’m going to admit that I’m a wimp about things like that – at least at six o’clock in the morning.
For a flickering moment, I contemplated going anyway. Why should I be limited by society’s dictates of what’s appropriate, I thought. Why not jog in the rain, glorious rain, letting it soak my hair and my soul? So what if my clothes get wet? It’s only water. It will dry. I won’t melt (I’m not a witch). To run anyway is a statement of freedom – going out and being one with nature, feeling the soft drops fall moist against my skin. It’s doing what I want, when I want to and loving it all the while, and isn’t that what life is all about?
But my enthusiasm ceased when the door opened and a cool rush of air hit me. And my eyes fell on a lake of water on the driveway. That’s when it hit me: The reason I’m not jogging in the pouring rain is not because society tells me I shouldn’t, but because I really don’t like being pelted with soggy raindrops – cold, soggy raindrops that blind me as I try to navigate my way down a sloshy park path. So I came back in, brewed myself a much more inviting cup of coffee and took some pictures of it in my handsome bicycle cup. And I savoured a few, quiet minutes to myself. I think it was the right decision.
– Words and photos by Lori-Anne Poirier