The morning is warm and the downpour torrential. I check my app for hours with less than 50% chance of rain. There aren’t any. It’s been that way for the last few days. Sloshing through the streets in a rain jacket. Soaked with sweat on the inside and rain on the outside.
I know parts of the canal path will be flooded but I go there anyway. It’s my favourite place to run. The puddles are frequent. Sometimes deep enough to reach over the top of my trainers. Wide enough to fill the path from side to side.
I find myself cautiously creeping round one. Edging onto the bottom of a slippery bank then inching forwards until I’m past this small flood. I wonder why. After all, I’m already soaked from head to toe. My trainers and socks squelching water at every step.
A few feet on, I reach the next one. Longer and wider than the last. I slow down and cautiously jog through the shallowest part. Which barely reaches the top of my soles. Slowing my speed keeps me no drier. Running through the puddle makes me no wetter. And anyway, it is only water.
The next one approaches hot on the heels of the last. This time, I’ve made up my mind to charge straight through it. But my leg falters on its first descent - with no apparent direction from me. I land in the shallow bit instead of following my natural course through the middle (which is of indeterminate depth).
I’m fascinated by this strange behaviour, which continues until I approach Brentford lock where the path becomes tarmac. I run without fear or hesitation along the paved Thames path through Isleworth, cross the bridge onto the south side of the river where the puddles begin again. Growing in size and depth as I head towards Kew.
An hour and a half of puddle running and I’m home. No wetter than I was when I first reached the canal, I step into the shower, where I’m no wetter than I was when I arrived home (although a lot less muddy).
The next day, I take a different route. Up The Avenue. Down Scotch Common. Round Pitshanger Park. The rain has stopped but the puddles remain. I’m more confident about stepping into them this morning. But I’m still conscious of when they are coming up. And I can still feel that moment of equivocation before I splish slowly through.
I run down Castlebar Hill, diving on and off the pavement to avoid the masked mums dropping their kids at the kindergarten. I run past a parade of shops. Past a sign. “Play now!” it says. “OK,” I say (but not out loud). “I will.” We are at cross-purposes, the sign and I. It’s talking about the lottery and I’m not.
I reach the Common. Run through the long, wet grass. Speed along the gloopy mud-drenched paths. Plunge into the puddles – even those I can’t see the bottom of. Splash and splosh through them. Treating them like any other piece of ground I step on.
I wonder about this phenomenon, this fear of puddles. I even write a blog about it. I add a photo. I give it one final read. And realise just how crazy my fear of puddles sounds. My finger hesitates over the publish button, just as my foot did over the puddle. I press it anyway.