A Funny Thing Happens When I Run: Introducing the Reverse Raindance

I’m a fair-weather runner. My running shoes hibernate in the wardrobe from November to February, to spare me from running in the worst of the winter weather. But with the wettest April since records began now segueing into an equally soggy May, there’s a slim chance of dodging raindrops on the run.

Or so you might think. But in the last few days, I’ve discovered I have a King Canute-like ability to turn the tide of imminent downpours, simply by donning my trainers and hitting the road.

Raindrops falling on water (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Last Saturday, I was scheduled to take part in a four-mile fun run in the next village. On the preceding Thursday and Friday, the rain had been falling in torrents. I wondered whether I’d be better off in a swimsuit than a tracksuit. I carefully packed a raincape for the run and a complete change of clothing, expecting to peel off sopping kit as soon as I crossed the finish line.

I drove to the starting point, windscreen wipers on full speed, headlights on, careering through puddles half the width of the roads. The race had been limited to 30 entrants, for fear of overcrowding, but thanks to the weather, only three, apart from me, turned up. The other three looked very pleased to see me. I gulped. There was no turning back.

And yet, by the time we padded off up the hill at the start of our four-mile circuit, the rain had just about vanished. We plodded on companionably, enjoying the inimitable freshness that emanates from fields after heavy rain. The weather was cool but comfortable, and when we arrived back at the village hall, we were pleasantly warm – and dry. Yet on the drive home, I had to turn my windscreen wipers on again.

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Then last night, I went to join the local running club’s evening run. As I drove down the hill, steely grey clouds were hanging ominously over the clubhouse. It was drizzling as I parked the car. I took this to be an overture to a drenching. But once my run began, the same thing happened as on Saturday. The storm clouds held back; there was not a drop of precipitation. On the return leg, there was even a glimpse of the sun. But no sooner had I got home and kicked off my running shoes than great sheets of lightning began to fill the sky in the direction of where I’d been running. Thunder rumbled on for some time.

So I’m coming to the conclusion that my running has the effect of a reverse raindance. This could come in very handy.

Rain dance in Kansas, 1920 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Now, I realise that by going public with my new-found talent, I’m probably going to jinx it. (First rule of Reverse Raindance Club: Don’t Talk About Reverse Raindance Club.) Expect a follow-up post from me any time soon detailing how I’ve been struck by lightning on my latest run or had to swim home through a monsoon.

But I hope not, and just for selfish reasons. Think of the public good that I could do! This Wimbledon season, the British Lawn Tennis Club could hire me to run round the courts whenever the weather looks murky. If I sprint about Lords Cricket Ground now and again, rain need never stop play. And as to the London Olympics, well, let the sun shine.

It’s a shame I didn’t discover this talent earlier. I live near the  Badminton Estate, where the most famous equestrian event in the world was meant to be taking place this weekend. For the first time in 25 years, it’s had to be cancelled because their land is waterlogged. If they’d just let me run around their course for a bit, I could have saved them the bother. But it’s just as well they didn’t ask me – I’m not sure I’m up to the jumps.

Some of my other posts about running:

Running In Wonderland (You Can Call Me Alice)       Keeping Up With My Sporty Daughter

And if you enjoy any of these posts, please consider sponsoring my Bristol 10K run later this month! I’m raising money for research into a cure for my daughter’s Type 1 Diabetes here. Thank you!

How to Make A Weather Forecast More Meaningful

"Oh, Toto, I sure wish I'd listened to the weather forecast!" (Image via Wikipedia)

“Are pirates real, Mummy?” my daughter asks out of the blue one day.

As a child I lay awake in fear at night worrying about Captain Hook, so I’m anxious to allay her fears.

“No, darling, they’re only in stories like Peter Pan.”

A few days later, the BBC Radio 4 lunchtime news scuppers my deception with a pirate attack off the coast of Somalia. Laura looks at me accusingly.

“Oh, but they’re not pirates like Captain Hook,” I try to reassure her. “And there aren’t any in this country, anyway.”

The trouble lies in the terms of reference. To Laura, all pirates have wooden legs, parrots and hook hands, not motor launches and polybags of heroin.

The same problem crops up with the weather forecast. One morning the radio alarm wakes us up with a report about a tornado in Birmingham.

“But you told me we don’t get tornados in this country!”

“Well, not big ones, like the one in The Wizard of Oz,” I explain. “In Birmingham, there won’t have been any cattle swept up into the sky or barns blown flat – it will just have seemed a bit windy.”

Despite my attempt at reassurance, Laura is on the lookout for flying houses all day.

These national reporters of news and weather have a lot to answer for. They bandy about terms that may make good radio but which mean very little to us normal human beings. And when they do come up with a clear, evocative description – such as the infamous “barbecue summer” that the weathermen have been promising us these last two years – their promises usually turn out to be false. (Or maybe weather forecasters like barbecuing on cold rainy days. I suppose it would minimise the risk of starting a forest fire.)

So for this autumn I’ve formulated some new definitions that are much more meaningful to those of us living in the Cotswolds. Not for me the Richter scale of earthquakes (I was disappointed to find a friend experiencing a 4.5 reported in Amsterdam did not feel the earth move). Nor the anthropomorphising of hurricanes. Calling the latest one Irene did nothing to make her more amendable to my American friends stockpiling groceries and bottled water in their cellars. No, I’ll be using terms of reference that relate directly to what I see when I look out of my cottage window.

First, there’s the Tetbury Wind Scale. Force 1: autumn leaves are becalmed on trees. Force 2: a breeze flaps them about a bit. Force 3: the leaves depart the tree before their time. Force 4: twigs are blown down too. Force 5: look out! Bigger sticks are falling from the sky. Force 6: wind enough to fell a whole branch. Force 7: and the rest of the tree as well – beware of them on the roads as you drive to work. Force 8: Uh oh! Westonbirt Arboretum’s had to close while they make it safe – but there could be some nice carved wooden souvenirs on sale next summer.

Then there’s the Gloucestershire Snow Scale. Force 1 and we all just think how pretty it is, especially on the fields and trees. Force 2: we can still go about our daily business provided we take it slowly. By Force 4, only the 4x4s can make it through the lanes. Force 8 and you’ll need to find a friendly farmer and borrow his tractor.

And then there’s my Cotswold Drystone Wall weather gauge. Force 1 means you’ll spot the odd little trickle of tiny stones after a mild frost, whereas Force 8 is an avalanche: whole walls tumbling down either side of every main road. This in turn is a harbinger of a spring spent admiring the day-to-day progress of the skilled and hardy stone wallers repairing it as you drive to work.

I just hope it’s not going to be another Pothole Winter.

(This post was originally written for the October 2011 edition of The Tetbury Advertiser.)