Running with the Cold

I have discovered that I can run in the cold.  In well below freezing temps.  I thought something bad would happen, like (for instance) I would get really, really, really cold. Miserably cold. I hate being cold. And my toes, nose, and fingers (and the pink lining of my lungs) would be frostbitten, which frostbite might lead eventually to death or dismemberment. But no. No, I can run in the cold without permanently damaging my pieces and parts.

Somewhere around Christmastime, I donned leggings, sweats, two pairs of socks, two layers of long sleeved t’s, mittens, a scarf, a hat, Meisha’s snow boots, and Frank’s heavy winter coat, and ventured outside. I was languishing for want of a good run. It was just barely ten degrees (if that); the air crinkled with sunshine and crystals. The road was covered with crunchy, packed snow. I thought I would maybe just walk fast, as far and as long as I could. Soon, though, I was trotting, and it felt so good, I kept trotting. I trotted in Meisha’s clumpy snow boots for three miles. When I returned home, my eyelashes, eyebrows, upper lip, and scarf were covered with a powdered-sugar dusting of frost, and I was elated. Running in the cold for me was, in a really small way, like landing on the moon. Look what I can do! Winter, I’ve cut your toenails! And I felt great, other than a few blisters I’d accumulated on my feet (trotting three miles in snow boots turned out to be the most dangerous aspect of running in extreme cold for me that day).

This barrier-breaking experience behind me, I can run (and I do) on almost any day that my favorite roads are relatively clear of ice and snow. And I go much farther than three miles, usually. I love it. I need it. My mind and my lungs are cleared, and my vision is filled with majestic mountain vistas and the lacy tracery of bare twigs silhouetted against grey skies.

For Christmas, my mother sent for-real running clothes to improve my shabby workout wardrobe. Black leggings (oooh). Black turtleneck (ahh). A snug jacket, in fuchsia. Fuchsia! All breathable. All surprisingly warm. Made of the kind of fabric that magically wicks the sweat away from your body and sends it anonymous and misty into the atmosphere. Wow. I joked that now I’d look like an heiress on the run, but Mom knew better. She’d been exploring on business trips to Sun River and Park City with Dad, had encountered heiress brands whose price tags blew her mind and filled her with indignation. Though I think my new running clothes are quite glamorous, she assures me that they are all propriety, perfectly pedestrian and budget-conscious. I can still run below radar. Too bad.

While I have emotionally sequestered myself (more or less) this winter, and my artistic output has all but dropped off the furthermost, coldest edge of the planet, I bask several times a week in the joy of an elevated heart rate, clear vision, and lusty, gusty lungs. The steady rhythm of my feet meeting the dormant ground. I miss summer’s aged, long legged gentleman waiting in his lawn chair in the shade of an old front yard sycamore, but I’m grateful that pseudo-hibernation is a safe option for both of us. I’m almost ready for those things I’ve missed: front porch hellos, ebullient typewritten monologues, a rekindling of my complicated affair with the paintbrushes in my gallery. Spring gardening. Maybe even another art show. Thank you, winter.