This is odd for a Dutch boy, but I’m not afraid to say it: I sort of forgot how to run in the rain. During my almost two years in Los Angeles I have run countless times. Heat, sand, dust, sun, wind, hills (and hills and hills), even the occasional bit of fog: I’m used to it . But the drought and I have been here at the same time. Rain has become like a distant relative you barely recognize.
Sunday it rained. It was pouring. New York in November, Holland any time of year: that bad. My shirt and shorts stuck to my skin. My Brooks trail shoes turned heavy, soaked with water and mud. My hands turned white (Raynaud’s disease is still here, jay!)
I was so happy to be wet. Battling serious rain adds an element of adventure and power, more so in the deserted hills, where trails wind up and down endlessly, testing your will and leg speed.
The dry sandy trails turned into muddy streams. I slipped on paths, wiped my eyes, wrung out my shirt at the end. The wild mountains and their trees by Thousand Oaks looked happy, too.
And how about the Venice canals that evening?