Okay.  It is official.  I simply love running barefoot in the rain.  It is sublime.  Joyous, intoxicating, raucous. Transcendental.  Truly, truly, truly.

That first run in a downpour was no fluke.  I am somewhat relieved, but vindicated, really.

When the sidewalks are rubble, like along Euston Street, running barefoot in the rain is lovely.

When you begin in a light mist and think you won’t get very wet but the second vehicle driving past you drives through a huge puddle without slowing and soaks you, running barefoot in the rain is like a play date with cumulonimbus cousins.

When paving contractors don’t properly clean up after their work and you must slow, cautiously getting beyond a small explosion of gravel, the combination of rain + running + barefoot is ineffable.

When you return to start and realize you don’t have something dry to change into, running in the rain is the big guffawing trickster you wish you were.

When you tune in to twitter to find out you are the scheduled WTF? on a local radio station for the next morning, running with abandon in a warm summer rain with your soles softening against city sidewalks might just be the most bizarre thing to happen to you today.

Today I ran.  Barefoot.  In the rain.