The hardest part is getting out the door.
The first assault of rain could send you back.
Who needs to run? Since tender soles get sore
from asphalt graze, and hailstones cheeks attack,
can you not skip this once? It’s just one day.
But no. The training plan demands six miles.
Accept the shock of rain upon the face,
the watered vision, wind that gropes your sides.
It’s kind of fun, once you get past the cold.
The spray is fresh, it wakes you up, you sing —
so this is living. Walkers shuffle, old
and anoraked. You fly, you mad young thing.
Returning home, soaked through and shivering,
defrost your feet to find them blistering.
This poem has a sister sonnet: Waiting Out the Rain