My dog is smarter than I am.
She knew, when I tried to coax her out to run in the pouring rain, that it was going to be a miserable and thankless outing. She huddled on the porch. She refused to budge.
So I headed out for a supposedly easy 5-mile loop alone.
By the time I hit the bay, it was pouring. Before long it began to sleet, and I cruised along, huge gusts of wind pushing me easily past my goal pace.
Then I hit the turnaround point and found myself running directly into a wall of sleet. And wind.
For the next 2.5 miles, I struggled. My poor Sugoi sub-zero tights sagged around my knees; they were no match for such brutality. When I cleared the last hill and my house veered into view (my house!), I almost sobbed in relief.
This is what I looked like after I strangled up the steps:
Note the look of complete and abject misery on my face?
This is what my dog looked like, at home warm and dry:
Still reading “Wuthering Heights.” Oh Heathcliff, let’s run across the moors in expensive Asics running shoes and Nike thermal shirts and eat Shot Bloks and be gloriously and wonderfully brooding. Catherine can come too, if she promises not to run like a girl.