Running in the Rain
August has been "get out there and get rained on" month here in Minnesota, or at least in Rochester, Minnesota. It's almost as if Seattle and Rochester have exchanged locales for the past couple of weeks. In other words, it has rained a buttload. Uck, there's something disturbing about the concept of a buttload of rain. How hard must it rain for the drops to force their way into the rectum, while keeping someone pinned down long enough to fill up their colon? Anyway. . .
Last night I finally made a purchase that's been nagging at me for well over a year. I stopped at Best Buy, perused their selection of portable MP3 players, picked out a $200 unit and drove home to figure out the new little piece of technology. For the past two years, I've been undertaking my ritual 5 mile run while carrying a clunky walkman. I carry it because the belt clip just can't hold up against my steady strides. Carrying a walkman for a five mile run is awkward, to say the least. Plus, I've been hankering to listen to some different music, and the chance to mine my considerable hard drive cache of MP3s was too appealing to ignore any longer.
The MP3 player is the size of a Zippo lighter, and about as heavy. I fired 22 songs onto the unit through a USB port and gave a listen: perfect CD quality sound coming from a Zippo lighter. Ain't science somethin'? I was pumped to go for a run, with my new MP3 player strapped on my arm like a blood pressure gauge. I looked out the window and, much to my dismay, I saw that it was raining out. Nay, twas pouring out. Here I was, all decked out to go running, with my Zippo lighter strapped to my arm streaming out a quality tune by Jack Johnson, and Mother Nature was conspiring to keep me indoors. I will have none of that, Ma'am.
Throwing out all common sense, and putting my new MP3 player at considerable risk to soak in water and fizzle and pop into a damp oblivion, I opted to go for a damn run anyway. When I started my run, there was a slight drizzle. By the halfway mark, hurricane Andrew had blown in. I was drenched, cold and miserable, but my new player was still jamming out the tunes, so I pushed on despite the deluge.
Not surprisingly, I had the entire running path all to myself. No one save Noah was dumb enough to be outdoors, let alone running on a path. Suddenly, I became aware of a frothy white foam running down my legs. It didn't take me long to deduce the source either. I frequently wash the spandex that I wear beneath my running shorts, mainly because any material that hugs my genitalia during a sweaty five mile run demands frequent washing attention. Well, apparently, a considerable amount of Tide detergent had taken up stubborn residence in the spandex stitching, and it was just waiting for me to run in a downpour to release itself. So, imagine if you will. . .
There I was, drenched from head to toe, a hazy figure barely visible due to the sheets of falling rain, with handfuls of white foam dropping from my shorts with each running step, as if I was experiencing the most stellar orgasm of my life, or suffering severe venereal disease discharges. I hazarded a quick glance behind me and saw white foamy piles extending as far as I could see. Worse than that was the large, angry Canada goose bearing down on me.
You see, Rochester's Silver Lake is known as a haven for Canada geese. They stay on the lake year round because it's quite warm and people are always feeding the stupid birds. Occasionally, a goose will develop an attitude and focus its displeasure at the nearest human being. Seeing as how I was the only human being, I also was the nearest human being, and this particular goose had a bone to pick with the foam dropping interloper.
As my MP3 player whirred a rendition of K's Choice "Not an Addict," I let out a startled goose-fearing yelp and quickened my pace to put some distance between me and the attacking fowl. However, with a few quick beats of its evolutionary-superior wings, the goose was upon me, falling heavily on the back of my knees and savagely beaking my leg hair, causing me to panic. I swung around, kicking wildly, catching the goose squarely on on the side of its head with my right foot and sending it skittering into the lake where it lay motionless. This was not a good thing. Killing a Canada goose is not looked favorably upon in Rochester. Thankfully, my unexpected bird abuse was likely obscured from view due to the pouring rain.
I advanced cautiously to the water's edge, where the crumpled bird floated. Just as I was about to reach in and grab the insane goose, it's head shot forth from the water and it started honking at me in a most irritated way. Once again, spooked out of my mind, I went sprinting down the trail, convinced that, at any moment, a rabid goose was going to fly into my face and start pecking out my eyes. As it was, I'm pretty sure the goose remained where it was, honking its displeasure at having been booted in the head.
The rest of my run was uneventful, and I eventually worked out the last of the Tide hidden in my spandex. And my MP3 player survived the wet run no worse for the wear. Still, I made sure to lock the door once I got home.
Never underestimate the tenacity of a pissed off goose.
Posted by Ryan at August 22, 2002 02:48 PM
Stumble It!
