Dick shook his head and replied, “Just pretend you’re ten.”
It was sprinkling as Dick and I, in our late forties, set off from the Berkeley Y on a winter afternoon to run at the U. C. Berkeley track, three blocks away. We ignored the sprinkling. We’d run in mild rain many times since beginning running years before.
The sky was darker when we reached the track, and no other runners were there. The sprinkling became light rain as we ran our first quarter-mile lap. By the second lap, the rain was a heavy shower—and we had ten more laps to go.
As we were starting our third lap, we were pelted by fierce rain. I stopped and shouted, “Dick, we gotta’ get out of here. We’ll get drenched!” Dick shook his head and replied, “Just pretend you’re ten.”
Joyful as young kids, we ran ten more laps in drenching rain.
Laughing and drowned-rat-wet, we hustled back to the Y and laughed giddily in the bliss of the steam room and a shower.
