You never really think about the texture of the ground until you’re hurting from it. My first week in Iraq, the front of my shins were exhausted and excruciatingly sore from trudging across huge pads of large gravel to get anywhere.
Running in the snow is a little less intense than running on the beach (which sucks, by the way). The soft, cushiony pliability works different muscles, but it is also more forgiving on the impact.
Christina and I set out for a pre-brunch run to earn the buffalo bleu sliders I was making Sunday morning. Christina HATES cold weather running, so she was apprehensive as we breathed plumes into the frosty air on our way to the greenway.
I, on the other hand, love the winter. I thrive in the snow. All the annoyances of fogged glasses, burning fingertips, skin burned pink are nostalgic to me. I’m wobbling on fresh powder, skies carving a tentative V as the downward acceleration both terrified and excited me; I’m walking over snow drifts in my backyard when El Nino buried us to the rooftops; I’m standing in the silence as the fat flakes softly fill the night; I’m digging holes with numb fingers to give a snowman eyes. My roots are exposed in this weather–full on Scandi, thick Swede through and through.
I found that running euphoria again in the snow. I was dazzled by frosted plants, cold streams snaking through snow banks, the sun glittering off untouched patches of snow. It was beautiful and quiet in a way it only is when it snows.
And, by the time we turned around and headed back downhill, I think Christina found some enjoyment in it too.
Let it snow. Give me more. I’ll binge on all this brisk winter running until spring and summer descent to suffocate and stifle me.