WHAT sort of an idiot goes for a run in the pouring rain? Look up a bit and to the right, and you will have your answer. So let me take you by the hand and lead you through the streets of York last Sunday morning.

Sometimes only a run will do, much in the way that sometimes only a glass of wine will do. The first activity atones for the second, or it does in my book.

After a wet night, the rain pretended to let off. Fuelled by a cup of tea, I set off, headphones in place.

Of all the modern inventions, the iPod is surely the best. Hi-fi purists may mutter about digital recording and bemoan the loss of vinyl. But believe me when I say I have been pounding the pavements for a while and never could get the hang of running while holding a record deck and amplifier.

An iPod in shuffle mode provides a random soundtrack to the sweaty miles. You are never sure what will come up next, although on my iPod it might well be Richard Thompson.

Now that we are running, and the creaky knees are in motion, let’s slip into the present tense.

Down Gillygate the pavements shine with last night’s rain. Beneath Lendal Bridge the River Ouse swells beyond its muddy boundaries, ready to explore dry land. High up on the Bar Walls, drizzle mottles my glasses. Beyond the station, York stretches damply into the distance beneath a grey sky. Down again now, careful as you go, because wet stone can be slippery.

The long stretch begins here, for this is an eight-mile run. Added atonement for past indulgences and those yet to come. The Reel Cinema looms and recedes, as too does Knavesmire. Somewhere before York College, the drizzle turns into full-on, pelting, stair-rods rain. Home is four miles in either direction. So ahead it is, over the A64, into Bishopthorpe and past the palace. No sign of the Archbishop, but who can blame him on such a morning.

The miles jog by and the rain continues to pour. If I wanted to be this wet, I could have changed into my running gear and stood under the shower, just to save time.

The rain is sledging off my bald pate, sluicing my glasses, sticking my running clothes to my skin and filling my shoes. Every single bit of me is soaked, soggy, inundated – pick any word you like from the waterlogged end of the Thesaurus.

Down Gillygate again and my iPod offers up The Hold Steady, about as noisy as I get. While their glorious racket fills my head, a shop awning funnels water down the back of my neck, and another puddle offers further proof about mere mortals not being able to walk on water.

Home now, almost. Two middle-aged men taking their beer bellies for a walk laugh at middle-aged running me. I can’t say I blame them. I laugh moments later standing in front of the hall mirror as water drips on to the tiled floor from every available surface, and a few that aren’t normally available.

So has this voluntary soaking been worth it? The wettest run I’ve had in ages, but one of the best. Running clears the head and gets the heart thumping.

Some of my best ideas, or least worst ones, arrive during a run. Whole columns have appeared out of nowhere (which is where they should return to, according to the more acerbic web hecklers, but never mind).

So a good run, and I might even get a column out of it.

• Julian Cole’s latest York-based crime novel, Felicity’s Gate, is published by Quick Brown Fox Publications (quickbrownfoxpublications.co.uk). It is another Rounder brothers novel, following The Amateur Historian, which is being published in the US in the spring.

• Julian will be at Borders, in Davygate, York, on Saturday, signing copies of Felicity’s Gate, from 11am to 4pm (cash sales only).