On Running

It’s nice to run. There’s no other perfect way to blow off some steam than to put on a pair of battered running shoes, limber up for a bit, and just run the hell out the door like Forest Gump high on energy drink.

Just me with the flit and flop of rubber on cement under my feet. Ah, freedom - so sweet, so dusty, so polluted, but I’ll run faster anyway until my lungs gape for air and my legs start to wear down. 

And I was almost halfway apart from my home and to an unconquered destination when the sky broke into a rain shower. Caught off guard, I sprinted to a covered spot. I was panting, drenched in the cold without any money nor a phone at hand. It got me thinking: should I run back to the safety of home or brave the harsh rain and continue running to an undefined goal? 

I grunted - hesitated, really, but manned up and placed my foot on the mud and ran. I ran like hell through roads made by men who didn’t know what sidewalks were.

If you were me, would you also run?