I Forgot About Humidity
Looking like a drowned rat running through the Midwest
I grew up in Issaquah, Washington. Close enough to Seattle that I tell people I’m from Seattle, but far enough that I immediately back pedal if I find out the person I’m talking to is actually from Seattle.
But whether you’re in Issaquah or Seattle, or anywhere west of the Cascades for that matter, there’s one universal truth about the Pacific Northwest: it’s not humid.
I know that might seem counter-intuitive. Because the only things people associate with my home town are grunge, Frasier, and rain. But despite how wet it is in the winter, spring and fall, the summers are as dry as Kelsey Grammar’s bon mots.
(I fucking nailed that ^^)
From June through August days hover in the high 70’s. They can get into the 80’s, maybe even the 90s, but (up until recently) the nights would always drop to 70 or below. When I was a kid no one had air conditioning. Most restaurants didn’t either. If it was a hot day we’d all just go to the movie theatre, and I have those hot Issaquah days to thank for any success I have playing Cinematrix today.
I could lie here and tell you that “Of course I knew what humidity was…” in an effort to seem more worldly and intelligent than I really was. But the truth is I was blissfully unaware of what true mugginess felt like my entire childhood.
And then, after college, I moved to New York.
I remember landing at JFK in late October, sometime around 7 or 8 PM, and schlepping my duffel bags through various subway trains, platforms, and transfers to get from Jamaica to Bay Ridge. And it was that one week that happens every October where Fall decides to say: “haHA fuck you and your little sweaters! You thought it was layering season?! Not this week. I want your cute little jackets to smell like stressed out sweat for the next month.” And I remember distinctly sitting in this, standing on the outdoor platform on Smith and 9th street (rookie mistake, I saw the transfer was at 9th, I jumped out a stop too early), dripping sweat, and thinking to myself: “But the sun is down. What is this witchcraft?”
I refused to believe it. So much so that I went two years without installing an AC in my apartment. I was regularly sleeping in a 90 degree room, living in a fever dream every summer, and performing a delicate dance every night where I would roll from one sweaty side of my bed to the other, letting one side evaporate while I absolutely destroyed the other.
Over time I got used to it. I figured out what humidity was. I bought an AC. My body adjusted. But when I started running, that was like immersion therapy for humidity. My body almost had to adjust to stay alive and well regulated. By the end of my time in New York I could run a 10K in 90 degree weather (feels like 101) and live to tell about it. Humidity was no longer my enemy. It was a valiant foe, one that I learned to respect, in a story book way.
Even after I moved to LA, and essentially lived without it for six years, I figured my immunity to humidity would always be with me. That my body had learned. It had adapted. Like riding a bike.
But then this week I visited Kansas City.
Looking Like A Drowned Rat In A Tank Top
When we landed on Tuesday afternoon it was 93 degrees, feels like 102. And I was not prepared.
Thursday morning I went out for a run at 8:30 in the morning. By mile 1 I had soaked through my shirt. By mile 2 there was not a dry square inch on my body. By mile 3 I ran by the hotel where Team England was staying for the World Cup, but more importantly my nipples were chafing. Jolly good.
By the time I got back to my mother-in-law’s house I had to just stand outside her garage for ten minutes, my body positioned like Leonardo Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, my shirt plastered to my torso, trying to dry off.
Since that day, the neighbors have kept their distance. One of the kids in the neighborhood even let out a tiny little scream when he saw me, and rode off fast on his bike. I have become a modern day Boo Radley in the suburbs of Kansas City.
The next day I laced up my shoes again and did everything I could to beat the heat. I set off a full hour earlier, I chose a shorter path, and I opted for a tank top to cut off the sleeve heat. None of it worked.
By mile two my tank top had essentially fused to my body. And that’s when my route had me cut through the local high school’s parking lot. A bald, sweaty, forty year old man with a mustache and a tank top, stained with the vague outline of blood from the chaffing, running through a high school’s parking lot.
Thank god it was summer break, because on paper, I was the exact thing children had been taught to fear. I looked like the stranger in stranger danger. Or the danger in stranger danger. Actually scratch all that, I now realize why the phrase is just stranger danger.
But in practice, I looked like a drowned rat in a tank top. Practically swimming through the moisture in the air. If anyone saw me and was worried I was a kidnapper it would take them two seconds to realize they could outrun me SO easily.
I finished the run, got back to my in-laws house, and took the position of the Vitruvian Man once again. Just in time for the neighbor across the street to catch a glimpse of me standing perfectly still, and wonder if he was somehow becoming part of a reboot of Weapons.
Last Week’s Runs
Tuesday 06/09 - 2.02 Miles, 9:29/Mile
Hit the road at 5:30 in the morning today since Bruce and I had to catch a 9 AM flight and I knew this was going to be my only chance to get a run in for a day or two. Easy two miles around Echo Park. I’m shocked how many people were also out at this hour. Run was great, flight was awesome. All in all a 10/10.
Thursday 06/11 - 4.17 Miles, 9:04/Mile
The first of the Humid Runs. Brutal. I did get to run by the hotel Team England was staying at. That was fun.
Friday 06/12 - 3.52 Miles, 9:10/Mile
The second of the Humid Runs.
Sunday 06/14 - 8.55 Miles, 9:54/Mile
The humidity broke! A thunderstorm (and tornado warning) the night before tamed the heat and this morning was a beautiful, cool run dodging downed branches and trees. I did the first 3.5 miles before swinging back to my in-laws house to pick up my sister-in-law and her boyfriend, and the three of us tacked on another 5.
I love running as a solitary activity, but I’ll be damned the last five miles went by SO FAST compared to the first 3.5. I thought back to my time training for the NY Marathon where I was getting in all my long runs just by myself, compare that to the LA Marathon where I did my long runs with Koreatown Run Club. Night and day. Running is therapy, but it’s also great talk therapy.