I got caught in a cloudburst tonight. There was NO ONE running around the lake, I think perhaps because of the severe thunderstorm warnings they've been tossing around all day and all the crazy lightning I saw on the way home from work, and the thunder crack so loud I actually jumped in my car. But most of it blew over and the weather warnings expired and I was determined to do one more run before the 5K on Saturday, so I went out anyway.
Most of it was fine, even though I was tired (I biked a lot yesterday and my quads are objecting). It was blustery and gray and humid but not raining, and the great blue heron kept launching himself around the lake just ahead of me. I have seen loads of herons in the last few days, incidentally. Or maybe just the same one, cruising around wherever I happen to be. Anyway, a little over halfway around, the wind start whipping the trees and blowing up the lake like some mystical beast was going to emerge from it. That's where my mind was, anyway, because of the Scottish historical fiction I read earlier this week--more on that later. (Also, there's a concession stand on that side of the lake that has some inexplicable signage about the "Snack Ness Monster" on it so, you know, maybe there's something to that mystical beast idea.)
By the time I got to the bridge, it was pouring. I was running hard and grinning like an idiot. I picked up about 10 extra pounds in sodden clothing weight. And I felt like crap, but good, too, exhilarated and hoping that I wasn't going to draw any lightning. Did you know that there was a park ranger who was struck by lightning 7 different times in his life? None of those strikes killed him, either. I think after the third time I'd probably consider changing jobs.
The sink's still full of my wet clothes. The cat's been trying to get a piece of me for hours, and I just made my favorite shake: frozen bananas, soy milk, peanut butter (except with almond butter, a new contender), and cocoa powder. Deeeelicious.