Saturday was a miserable day for running. It was cold, and it was raining. A terrible combination. The only worse running weather is sleet. A ten-miler was on the schedule, but with this weather, I decided eight would do.
At first, it wasn’t so bad. But about four miles in, the wind blew frigidly in my face. My mood plummeted. Two more miles, and I thought that if a scary stranger pulled up in his car and offered me candy and a ride, I’d be sorely tempted to accept. I was tired, and my desire to walk was warring with my longing to be in a warm house as soon as possible. At mile seven — nose dripping, shoes splorshing, hip flexors complaining, and breath fogging, all I wanted was to be home.
Finally, I finished the last mile and burst through the door of my abode. My hands were cold. My gloves and shirt were soaked. But finally it was complete, and I heard a hot shower calling my name.