I haven't been out running at all since last Wednesday, as over the weekend I was on an annual booze cruise to France, and there was as much chance of me flying to the moon as there was of me doing anything vaguely healthy. And due to work and uni commitments this week, I am a bit limited on other opportunities to train. So despite the pouring rain, and the lure of Chelsea v Man City in the pub, I went out for a little 5k, and was actually quite look forward to it. Until I had been out for 10 seconds.
Whoever it was at the running club who told me running in the rain was invigorating was lying. It's not. It's crap. And wet. That lovely pink and black waterproof that was so enthusiatically purchased a couple of weeks ago? Not waterproof at all. I would have stayed drier had I wrapped myself in newspaper.
It has been pouring down virtually non stop all day here, and the drainage system is clearly inadequate, meaning I spent at least half the time ankle deep in freezing cold puddles. Still, I kept plodding on; determined not to be defeated.
I was approaching the last 500 metres or so, with the end in sight, when some tosser (not a word I use often) decided it would brighten up his evening to slowly pull up behind me in his 4x4, then acclerate through a huge puddle, thereby ensuring that I was completely drenched, instead of the 90% soaked that I had been previously. And he shouted something indecipherable, but no doubt jolly amusing out of his window at the same time.
On a more positive note, I managed to finish in the same time as I did the route in last week, which given the amount of time I spent jumping puddles wasn't too bad I suppose. And happily for me, the football was an 8pm kickoff so I got to see the last hour at the gym.
Thank you for reading.