I was up before the sun on Saturday morning, hoping against hope that the all-comers meet in Huntington Beach wasn't rained out. Looking out my bedroom window, all I could see was trees bent sideways and great raindrops coursing down the pane. The streets were covered in puddles and the sky was an endless cloud. And yet the website didn't mention anything about a cancellation, so I threw on my clothes, grabbed my stopwatch and pointed the Suburban north on the 405. Somewhere right around the South Coast Plaza shopping mall, the rain was coming down with monsoon-like ferocity, great sheets of water so dense that I could barely see the car in front of me. But I was certain that the heavy stuff had already passed, and pushed on.

Alas, the meet was canceled. The track was empty, though remarkably clean after all that rain. Knowing that my wife was at a kick-boxing class, I decided to drive home down the coast. The Pacific was in full roil and PCH was flooded by the Newport jetty. On a whim, I turned onto the Newport peninsula, where I lived during the four-year wilderness of my early twenties. I'm not a fan of that epoch (the four years is officially known as an Olympiad, but as these were not competitive times, I feel wrong using that term), and haven't been for quite awhile. But as I got out of car and walked along the beach by the Newport pier, I heard a little voice telling me to go easy on myself. Those wilderness years were just me trying to figure things out. So lighten up. It might be twenty years before I can write about it, but when that day comes there will finally be some self-forgiveness.

Good to know. 

Made it home in time for the second bout of rain, but by then I needed to add some physical effort to my catharsis. Put on an old pair of shoes, grabbed the leash, and took my dog for a run down in the canyon. The mud was so slippery and thick that I spent the eight miles bracing myself; by the time I was done the muscles of my thighs felt clenched and bruised. The creek was a muddy knee-high torrent, which had to be forded twice. Bella got a kick out of that. And the hills were slick as glass. I had to run them toes out, like a cross-country skier. I did not feel Olympian, but if I were training for the Olympics, I would imagine these would be the sort of bold miles that would make their way into my training on a more regular basis. 

The rain didn't stop the whole run. It only got harder. I had my hat on, the "Navy Cross-Country" cap that I wear when the sun is blazing or when the skies are falling. I washed Bella on the back porch when it was all done, then hosed myself off for good measure. 

I stood there in the driving rain, my head tilted toward the sky like a turkey who doesn't know better. Some sort of burden slipped from my shoulders. I let it go. I was spent, but fortified. 

Keep Pushing... Always