There’s nothing quite like running in the rain. The combination of the cooling droplets kissing your skin, and the smug knowledge that you’re clearly some sort of level-nine badass.
But there’s a downside, and I’m worried that it’s just me.
I’ll be out there, running along, oblivious to anything nature can throw at me1. My gaze will be levelled firmly ahead of me because if I hunch over even slightly, it might look like I’m trying to shy away from the downpour. I revel in the sweet traction of my feet on the wet pavement as I power through the miles. And then…
By the time I’ve realised what’s happening, I’ve already flattened a dozen or so of the snails who were innocently squirming2 their way from one side of the footpath to the other. Every time I go out in the rain, I see the same thing. Dozens, hundreds of the little slimy blighters, all on some inexplicable pilgrimage to the promised land at the other side of the pavement.
Phlutt (that one was a rogue slug)
As soon as I realise what’s happening, I always try to avoid further carnage, but when I swerve mid-stride to avoid one snail, I usually end up stepping on three or four more. This has the added bonus of making me look like I’m being Tasered during the quarter-finals of the East Midlands hopscotch championships.
But why do they do this?
Why is it only when it’s been raining?
Is there some mythical snail paradise over there on the far verge that only appears when things get a bit damp?
How do snails even know when it’s been raining? Surely snails live in a state of perpetual moistness because THAT’S WHAT THEY’RE MADE OF!!
What makes it worse is the fact that, for some reason, a large proportion of these kamikaze gastropods seem to be tiny little baby ones. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a baby snail, other than when I’m about to inadvertently smush one into oblivion. Is it a rite of passage? Does some wise old bearded Grandpa snail sit them on his knee3 and solemnly tell them how they must earn their shell by “braving the wrath of The Clumsy One”?
I just don’t know. And I probably never will, because finding out about the migratory habits of snails would probably involve talking to a snail enthusiast, and that’s all kinds of wrong.
As I type this, something’s just occurred to me. What if I’m the only one who experiences this phenomenon? And what if the reason it’s just me is that the snail is, in fact, my spirit animal.
Oh my god. It all makes sense now.
The fondness for cheese and stand-up comedy (okay, we’ve already established that I don’t know much about snails)
The fact that too much salt would kill me.
Oh well, I just have to bury my snail-genocide guilt under the thought that if God had wanted me to not tread on snails, he would have given them high-visibility yellow shells and made them 12 feet high.
(Why did I let that image pop into my head? I’m never going to sleep again).
Oh, come on!
1 Not strictly true. I’d probably notice a brontosaurus.
2 Insofar as it’s possible for anything to squirm innocently.
3 Yeah yeah, I know. Snails.
BIT AT THE END
Hello nice blog-reading person. That’s an ace jumper you’re wearing. Really brings out the colour of your ears. Anyway, cards on the table, there are actually only two people who read this blog: You, and a trainee Dutchman called Mike Van den Vanvan. It’d be great if you could spread the word and share some links to your favourite posts on the Facebookses or the twitters. Or maybe you could scrawl “born to plod = ace” on a bedsheet and tie it to a busy roundabout. The Internet has promised me a basket of kittens for every million hits I get, and I’m hoping to get enough to start a farm. Ta.