Now that the average daily temperatures have dropped to a merciful 97 degrees (anyone else a little chilly?), I have once again taken to jogging outdoors. I was glad to see that our apartment is located about half a mile from one of the city's many canals. The canals are an ideal running route because they usually have an unpaved dirt section on at least one side; thus you can run while admiring the distant mountain scenery, the beautiful desert sky, and the bums who have set up camp on the canal's edge - all while sparing your legs the torture of running on concrete!
Today while running through Little Mexico (the canal forms the barrier between posh Tempe and Scottsdale and the rather run-down, third-world-esque section of the city fondly known as 'Little Mexico'. I run on the Little Mexico side because it's the unpaved side) I noticed a rather large thunderstorm on the horizon. The gathering dark violet clouds made for a beautiful splash of color across the sky (Phoenix sunsets are, I kid you not, the most beautiful in the world). And so I ran along, admiring the sunset, dodging the occasional cockroach and nodding hello at the occasional bum setting up camp.
At the run's midpoint, stopping to stretch, I looked up and realized that the storm, which I thought was moving away, was actually moving in
over the valley - straight for me. I could see the huge deluge of rain that the thundercloud was dumping, taking the shape of a rather mushy-looking gray plume extending from the sky down to the ground.
Then the lightning started.
For those of you unfamiliar with desert storms, they are not like storms in the Pacific Northwest. Unlike PNW storms, which are usually characterized by amorphous, pathetic flashes of lightning and loud thunder, desert storms wield often-silent lightning that has no problem reaching the ground in long, jagged bolts of white-hot electricity spread out like tree branches. Being that the terrain is so flat, it doesn't take much to become a lightning rod yourself.
Just to be safe, I decided it was time to start heading home. At a distance of three miles, it would take me some time to get back, so I started jogging along, not too concerned about the storm. I was tired anyway.
About a mile later I could tell I was exhausted and winded. I could also tell that the storm was nearly overhead, its purple mass moving ever closer. The lightning was growing more intense, visible now in the familiar branchlike tendrils, striking whatever it could reach. Still, I was a little unmotivated. No need to worry, I told myself - the chances of getting hit by lightning aren't that high anyway.
And then, as I crossed the railroad tracks near Apache, a bolt of lightning darted down from the sky not a quarter mile from where I stood and struck the ground. I looked up, and the rather uncomfortable realization set in that I was running along with a body of water on one side and a string of unending live power lines on the other - all while listening to an electronic device that was attached firmly to my head.
And suddenly I had all the motivation I needed to take off running again. There's nothing like the surge of adrenaline brought on by the seemingly real prospect of being struck by lightning to push you to set that personal best time.
I have decided that writing and researching a thesis is very much akin to a job feeding Jabba the Hut, primarily because you shovel inordinate amounts of food/crap into the thing and get so little back (except for the stuff that it vomits and/or burps back out at you. That you get to keep for free). And, of course, there's the oh-so-appropriate parallel created by the fact that if you don't give the thesis enough to eat, it most certainly will eat you.
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