Running in the rain

Maybe I was meant to run in the rain this morning.  My first morning run since Ma and Pa Kettle left on holiday leaving me to look after their house and water their plants.  All my routines had gone out the window by this time and it was almost a year since I'd had a place to myself for any length of time.  I needed to sleep in.  And yesterday they had returned.

Richmond Park keeps me sane in London.  A break from the traffic, the people, the suburbs, the rows of identical houses.

When I set off this morning the clouds threatened and twenty minutes in, it was a raining steadily.  There were few others in the park except for the odd jogger and dog walker and dog.  It was wet and cool but so good to get away.

The rhythmic meeting of my shoes with the dirt path with only the hills, fields and trees in view.  No need to worry about dodging cars or crossing roads.  And Richmond Park - old hunting grounds - is beautiful.

Even on a grey wet day, the old trees create a sense of warmth - they have endured the passage of time, holding the earth to the ground, displaying their silent beauty and strength with no excuses.

I run to Richmond gate and turn around to find the rain heavier and the wind blowing against me.  The rain falls like needles and I feel alive, praying at the same time for the rain to ease.  I escape the wind as I run along the southern wall.

I return to the gate nearest Kingston Hospital and I hear a roar - a cyclist negotiating traffic.  A roar of outrage at a car that has almost cut him off.  The roar of a man, confident of his own position railing against the carelessness or thoughtlessness of a driver with little regard for a man on his bicycle in the rain.  A man willing to express himself, unfettered by self-consciousness or the resignation that comes with living in our modern world where we are too often silenced by the need to grin and bear what is so wrong.