Running

For that reason I love the rain in England- everyone is indoors and its you, your footsteps and your heartbeat. No music. Just the gentle rhythm of rubber on gravel, and the drip of droplets mingling with the beads of sweat and falling all around you.

Or the early morning, when you and a hardcore bunch of rowers are up and the pre-dawn greeting, like joining a secret club, the raised eyebrow in mutual appreciation of each other's dedication to allowing a bit of time for yourself.

Rain in April is the best, just after a baking, humid day and the thunderclouds set in and the wind picks up and London crawls to an anticipatory halt, as people prepare to rush to any shelter and a fumbling for umbrellas, like gas masks in the trenches. And then the first soothing drop and the whole ground seems appreciative. And finally, the smell post rain, of cleanliness.

I sort of love running, and sort of hate it.
I love waxing lyrical, especially when its rubbish.