Natural disappointment

Growing up in New England, I was always a little jealous of people who lived in climatologically interesting places. The closest we ever had to a natural disaster was the blizzard. And in Maine we were pretty adept at snow removal, so a blizzard had to be a real doozy to count as an event. Anything less than five feet in 24 hours was insufficient to force a school cancellation, let alone make the national news. Four and a half feet was just enough to break my back shovelling the driveway and not nearly enough to prevent the plows from clearing the road before the school bus arrived. Boe-ring.

By contrast, the South routinely had exciting weather events, which we always watched on television with rapt attention. Hurricanes. Tornadoes. The sorts of cataclysms that launch the careers of aspiring television journalists. Try to imagine Dan Rather in 1961 catching the eye of CBS execs by reporting from the snow-covered rocks of Portland, Maine in January. There's a reason that many Americans think that Maine is a Canadian province: hurricanes make good television and blizzards do not.

Now I live in a very climatologically interesting place: Alabama. So it was with no small anticipation that I awaited the arrival of Hurricane Fay last week, my first noteworthy weather event. Then Fay was downgraded to a tropical storm, changed directions seven times, and stalled out over Florida, which took some of the excitement out of it. But when I saw the pictures of eels and 'gators swimming in the streets of the Sunshine State, I became eager all over again. Violent winds, torrential rains, storm surge, and dangerous animals? I'm all about that!

Fay arrived Saturday and of course I celebrated by lacing up the running shoes and heading out to tour the carnage. I was sorely disappointed. No children suspended horizontally from street signs. No local TV reporters channelling their inner Dan Rathers, buffeted by rapacious gusts. No one paddling around the streets in canoes. Not one alligator.

But there was plenty of rain. So all was not lost. Like most amateur endurance athletes -- runners, cyclists, rhythmic gymnasts -- I am both vain and deluded about my own physique. I'll take any excuse to run shirtless through the streets with rain pouring over my flabby midsection, imagining that I resemble one of those athletes portrayed on the cover of Outside Magazine, making his way across the Australian outback with nothing but a compass, a water bottle, and a tattered pair of running shorts. Fortunately, everyone else had the good sense to stay inside, so I had no spectators.

I have Tropical Depression Fay to thank for that brilliant moment.

My stats from last week.
Sunday: ride 22m
Monday: rest
Tuesday: run 7m
Wednesday: 12 x short hill
Thursday: run 5m
Friday: 12 x 400 meters
Saturday: run 4m shirtless in a mild tropical depression; lunges 20 minutes