I dislike the rain because it results in wet and muddy roads, and I especially hate it if my tasks involve going out the front door when it’s pouring.

But our Sunday long run under a downpour was exhilarating and, I have to admit, a little hardcore.

The weather was fine when Max and I started running at close to 5 a.m. Some 15 minutes later, there was a drizzle so slight it was barely noticeable. We went on our way and, three kilometers into our run, stopped for some stretching exercises.

At the fifth kilometer, the drizzle turned into a deluge that soaked every inch of our clothing and skin (and I mean this literally). Puddles on the road hit by our running feet splashed water and loose soil on our legs and shoes that later felt like they weighed a ton.

It was a challenge going up the first Mandaue-Mactan bridge, with huge water drops pelting us from above and wind whipping our faces and, in my case, my hair. And where it collides with bare skin, the shower hurts the most.

Motorists passing through the bridge were looking at us as if we were a pair of nutcase braving the rain in nothing more than running shorts and shirts.

The strange thing about it was, I didn’t care. The run in the rain evoked pleasant and carefree memories of childhood, when my friends and I played tag in the rain and frolicked in muddy puddles to the consternation of our parents.

Though our wet clothing and shoes weighed us down, the dash up the bridge did not cost as much effort as in previous runs through it. I felt as if I could go on for hours.

It was my best run, ever.