About a mile and a half into my morning run to work I passed a large puddle at the same time as a car coming the opposite direction. As surely as if I had been standing on a breakwater, I was drenched head to foot by an impressive wave. In work, people complained of the wet and windy weather, which I had secretly enjoyed.
However I decided to walk to the bus rather than run home. A tree had fallen and crushed a car at a road junction. The police were at the scene. It wasn't clear if anyone was inside - I hoped not but feared the worst - the area was taped off, frenzied flapping police tape threatening to break loose.
Further up the road, wet masonry littered the pavement, the street taped off again. It looked like a cornice had collapsed, exploding like a bomb on the street, littering it with lumps and shards. I looked nervously upward and stepped well away from the side of the buildings. A bin full of discarded umbrellas. The bus stop vibrating like a tight sail. It was good to get home and close the door on what had become snow squalls. This wind is a chimney-pot toppler.
There's a hillwalking saying "there's no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong type of clothing." There certainly is such a thing as bad weather: or do we have the wrong cars and houses too?
May 1 on the Pacific Crest Trail, 35 Years Ago
6 hours ago