The girl flaked out on me, citing inclement weather. One could hardly blame her, but I did, because it was funny to assume that high thirties and a steady, gray drizzle made great running conditions. Had it been colder and snowing, as it had been two days earlier, she would have joined me, wearing several layers, two pairs of gloves, and a fleece vest. I ran as I had in the snow: shorts with a bike-short-like liner, and a long-sleeve tech tee with the sleeves usually shoved to my elbows. I had worn a light pair of gloves in the snow, but today I left them in my bag, working on the theory that the cold air and rain would be beneficial for my freshly-burned hand. Florence and her indomitable Machine thrummed in my ears.
I can't help being self-conscious when I run with the girl. I'm working on it, but the progress is slow. She is a far better runner than I will ever be, and I always feel that I am holding her back. To her credit, she insists that this is not true. "This a good pace for me for a recovery run." It is the sort of understated Germanic praise I have come to accept as a ringing endorsement of high regard. Still, I over-think everything, end up focusing on how slow I think I'm going, and feel like I'm plodding heavily and clumsily along as she floats beside me, effortless. This is not to say that I don't over-think everything when I run alone; over-thinking is my most operandi of modii. However, alone I have no basis for comparison, and more importantly, no one I feel the need to impress. Alone, it is only me, a trail, and an abusive, raw determination to run further and faster. ("Pick it up, fatty!! Finish the job!!")
Plus, with no basis for comparison, I can fool myself into thinking I'm running really well. Truth be told, I am not a great runner... but I am a persistent runner, and that should count for something.
Today, I ran alone. By mile two, my over-used cotton socks had grown noticeably damp, and water splashed from the tops of my shoes with each ungainly step. My hair carried a thick coating of frigid droplets which warmed enough to feel like summer sweat by the time they had rolled past my eyes. Trying to focus on an approaching car, I realized that either my eyes themselves had started to freeze, or the mist on my eyelashes had pulled the hairy flagella down into my field of view; I could easily see the truck a quarter mile ahead of me, but its edges could not be discerned. This caused more fascination than alarm.
Mile three brought me into the park for a treacherously slippery boardwalk and a steep, muddy uphill slog that almost made me stop ("KEEP RUNNING, FATASS!! DON'T QUIT NOW! You can see the top! It's RIGHT THERE!!") before a long, gradual downhill, the chance to startle a dog and his cell-obsessed person, and a couple long heel smears in what had been a grassy path, but was now a chilly bog.
Two more miles before I finished, and raining the whole time. It was murky, gray, and ugly--typical Cleveland weather. The air was cold, but five miles of steady loping kept me warm enough to be happy, even with icy water coating my eyes and clouding my vision. The last run of the year was pretty great.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Friday, December 30, 2011
The Chase
For no apparent reason, she started running. For this reason alone, she became the Quarry. Hers was an easy lope; she dared not go faster for fear of tripping in her snowshoes.
I had no such fear.
She had a generous head start, but I knew within three long, running steps that she didn’t stand a chance. My speed was greater than hers from the start, but it built as my over-sized feet hammered the snow, churning the virgin expanse of glimmering white and leaving a narrow but thoroughly destroyed swath in my wake.
With each step, the tails of the snowshoes snapped upward, sending a fresh cascade of fine crystals over my head and into the hood which flapped behind me like a battle pennant. I was closing fast, and knew I could go faster, but her speed suddenly dropped, oblivious to the imminent threat swiftly approaching from the back.
Deprived of the chase, I bellowed in rage, arms thrown wide for a sweeping tackle,and was rewarded by a quick turn, a look backwards, and an expression of sudden horror upon a visage already pinked with exertion and cold air.
I had no such fear.
She had a generous head start, but I knew within three long, running steps that she didn’t stand a chance. My speed was greater than hers from the start, but it built as my over-sized feet hammered the snow, churning the virgin expanse of glimmering white and leaving a narrow but thoroughly destroyed swath in my wake.
With each step, the tails of the snowshoes snapped upward, sending a fresh cascade of fine crystals over my head and into the hood which flapped behind me like a battle pennant. I was closing fast, and knew I could go faster, but her speed suddenly dropped, oblivious to the imminent threat swiftly approaching from the back.
Deprived of the chase, I bellowed in rage, arms thrown wide for a sweeping tackle,and was rewarded by a quick turn, a look backwards, and an expression of sudden horror upon a visage already pinked with exertion and cold air.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
silhouette
The party continued behind me, but it was time to go home. Ahead of me, the butte rose against the sky, its outline picked out in the darkness with the lights of hundreds of large homes in tiny yards.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)