When the rain is pounding on the roof so hard it pounds your head,
When the cold and wet and dark have no appeal for you (in bed),
When the wind is howling up a storm,
When this is now the weather's norm,
Then you'll find that, as you sit up, your limbs are made of lead.
When you show great strength by swinging out your weight-feet to the floor,
When you overcome great distances from bed's edge to the door,
When you've put an end to brother's sleep,
And borrowed sweats that stop rain's seep,
Then you'll find that this delay has just encouraged rain's downpour.
When you persevere and don the sweats, and tie on running shoes,
When you tell yourself that going out does not mean that you lose,
When you, sighing, leave the quiet house,
With the rain's one mission: you to douse,
Then you'll find your comfort thinking that the right thing you did choose.
In no time you're a-running 'round and 'round the sopping track,
While the wind is pushing ever, try'ng to blow you sliding back,
And with little droplets, pointed shards,
It cuts you face with every yard...
And you find the wind a-soaking, pulling, like a stubb'rn pack.
But you run your miles, pressing on, contin'ing to the end,
Expertly dodging puddles as you round the final bend,
To finish fin'ly, gasping air,
And head toward warmth with fix-ed stare,
The while saying "I'm crazy - this habit I must end!"
"What's the definition of insanity?" Ben asked the other morning, zipping up his top-most layer of protection again the torrential rain and driving wind. I was shivering too hard to answer at first, but finally managed, in a small voice, "Doing the same thing over and over again, while expecting different results?" "Yeah, well," he replied as, with hoods already dripping we reached the track, "Something just got added to the list."