A 45-minute run through in the rain reminded me to pay attention to the finer points in life.

5. Flattery and human kindness. I noticed an SUV slowing down at an intersection in front of me, and figured the driver was probably lost. As I got closer, I heard his transmission clunk into park, and then the driver’s door opened. A fetching fellow wearing snazzy clothes stepped out and very cutely (and awkwardly) asked, “Do you, um, need, uh, a ride back or something?” He pointed at the sky. “Cause I mean, it’s raining…” I thanked him and refused his offer, briefly explaining that I was getting soaked on purpose. He drove away, and I smiled like a schoolgirl until the next steep hill. Sure, he could’ve been a serial killer, but the flattery felt good, especially since I’m still alive to write about it.

4. Freedom. Heavy rain and cloud-cover offered a break from sweltering summer heat. Being the only pedestrian in sight made me feel insane, but in a good, fun way. I embraced freedom because I chose to get out and run like I’d hoped to all day, even though the storm tried its best to convince me to stay on the couch. I did, however, wait until there was no lightning in sight. I like to feel free, not fried.

3. Indulgence. Waffle Cone Wednesday didn’t turn into gut rot after I ran off some of the calories. I had a scrumptious blend of peanut butter and vanilla in my cone, and running made me feel completely justified in my choice to gobble down the frozen yogurt and every speck of cone.

2. Trees. There’s no gentler, more beautiful tear than the one that rolled off a magnolia leaf and down my cheek. The water was cool and clean and earthy. A simple offering from a tree felt like a priceless gift from a wise old soul.

1. Appreciation. I saw more of the world around me than I could’ve ever seen had I peered through a window. As I flew through my favorite park—really, running felt like flying today—I couldn’t believe what a perfect rainbow arched across the landscape. Maybe people thought I was a slightly off-shade leprechaun in my high-vis shirt, but I didn’t care. The few cars around me drove through raindrops and away from what looked like an artist’s rendering of a classic rainbow. I knew that even if they looked out their windows and saw it, I had the better view. The rainbow seemed to drop one of its sides into the bayou, and I gleefully ran toward the bridge to see if it really did fall into the water. It didn’t, but as I crested the bridge, pelicans soared over my head in the multi-colored sky. Every bit of my slice of earth was in sharp, stunning focus. There’s something about rain that brings out the best details of life, and the resulting musty shoes are well worth a run in the rain.

Some days, or weeks, life seems to work against fitness ambition. The second week of November epitomized that week for me. I decided to run my second-ever 5K, and was hoping for perfect preparation. Instead, here’s what I got, blow-by-blow, with no ugly details spared:

• Forgot to bring dinner to work, so had to buy on-site meal that tasted a little funky. Became close acquaintance of toilet most of the following day.
•  Night before the race, reluctantly went to dinner with friends. Still skeptical of prepared food after very recent recovery from flushfest. Ordered chicken salad, got a beautifully prepared dinner plate, stuck my fork in the salad, and found a ginormous human hairball in the middle. Chicken, mayonnaise, and hair. Enough said.
• Went home to get some rest before race (and try to get hairball image out of my head), choked on a gulp of water, ran to the sink to spit it out, and rammed my forehead into the stainless steel faucet. Small goose egg, big headache.
• Bedtime routine seemed like a safe haven. Took long, warm shower to wash away the food poisoning, hairball, and possible concussion. Stepped out of shower onto plush rug and a sizable shard of porcelain from a broken nicknack. Pain, blood, and defeat. I’d cut the bottom of my foot less than 12 hours pre-race! 

Luckily, after some careful washing and Band-Aiding, the week’s drama was over, and I went to sleep. And, shockingly, I didn’t fall out of bed or trip over a dog in the middle of the night. Perhaps this week backs up the no pain, no gain theory– I ran a more than three-minute personal best, which required powering (and wheezing) through the race at a pace I never imagined running. I do hope the next pre-5k week is at least hairball-free though. I’d sacrifice a few seconds of gain to be spared that pain.

Last-minute fitting of my backpack before hopping into my loaded-down Civic for a drive to the beach for a 16-mile hike.

The typical Honda Civic seats five humans. Mine, however, seats one, or two if somebody doesn’t mind discomfort. It’s not that I don’t want friends riding with me– it’s just not possible with my active pack rat lifestyle. I’ll go space by space to explain (and this is just stuff that’s in there today, after a recent cleaning).

First, the front passenger seat. A bicycle helmet, a newly purchased pair of work shoes so my feet don’t hurt after long hours of exercise and walking hospital floors, an empty bottle of Naked Superfood Green Machine, and various receipts for athletic paraphernalia. Foot room? Uh-uh. On the floorboard is a bike pump, a water bottle, some dirty athletic socks, and a pair of running shoes. While we’re looking around up front, I should mention the console. The cup holder on the right has a gym membership card and a pack of gum (to avoid gym breath). The one on the left has registration information for a nearby 5K. Really, where would you sit?

To the back seat. From one end to the other, without 1/2 inch wiggle room, is most of my Novara bike. On the floorboards is its front wheel, plus two clean pairs of running socks, another empty water bottle, and a sweatshirt that should’ve been washed three workouts ago. Plus, there’s the general funk that comes with sporty things kept in a confined space.

I like to think of my car as a second home, or maybe a bit like a mobile storage shed for gear in case the urge to pull over and get active strikes. Have I killed my gas milage yet? Maybe, but you can bet I’ll be ready for any impromptu fitness gatherings in town.