The rain pelted the roof just an hour before quitting time. All day the idea of running after work seemed so enticing.
Last week was just too damned cold. Temperatures were in the single digits, but the wind chill dropped us into the negatives. Throughout the week we got plenty of snow, and running just seemed like a stupid idea. I do my best not to be stupid.
This week we're in the 50s. For a couple of days, anyway.
This is the schizophrenic part of the year. Weather goes from deep freeze to summer breeze (makes me feel fine). After these warm days, the temperature is supposed to drop 30 degrees for the rest of the week. Nothing shocking to those of us on the North Coast.
The nice thing about these brief heat waves, though, is the snow melts and we get clear running paths for a spell. Yesterday's forecast seemed perfect. Rain in the morning, but clearing later in the day. Suddenly, reality set in. A violent roar dispelled the weatherman's claims.
It rained pretty much the whole way home, but as my exit off the highway neared, the windshield wipers began to squeak as they cleared. The rain was letting up.
Mrs. Viper had prepared a big vat of chili for dinner. It was sitting on the stove. As enticing as it was to just grab a bowl and eat, a run beckoned. It had been more than a week since my last 30-minute fartlek.
The roads were wet, but the evening's warmth felt soothing. My legs felt good. Clicking off lightpole intervals taxed my legs and lungs a bit more than usual. My watch alarm to turnaround sounded a bit earlier than previous outings. My pace and distance were below their recent marks, but it was good to get out again.
My next run will require many more layers.