I’m quickly learning to not check the temp as I leave my house to run in the morning. Once upon a time, I had a (probably smart) rule: no outdoor runs on days below 10F. I didn’t make that rule up; it is a rule I remember from an old Runner’s World article, or maybe it was a bit of wisdom from my uncle (a biology teacher and runner I admire). I’m not sure where it came from, but it’s been in my cache of running lore, along with strange breathing techniques for remedying side stitches and partner IT band stretches, for a good while.
D and I step out this morning and oh. my. good. gravy. it’s so damn cold our snot immediately freezes in our noses. We forego our normal walking start and just run because we both know we need to get this madness over with as soon as possible. My eyes water with the cold and freeze into mini icicles on my lashes and cheeks. I glance at D; wisps of her hair peeking from under her hat are white with frost; her eyebrows reminiscent of Papa Noel’s.
When I get home, I check the temp. -2. I call D to tell her we’re lucky we’re not dead.
D: Nah. We’re just hearty.
Me: Hardy like a plant? H a r d y? Or hearty? H e a r t y?
D: Oh. I meant hearty? But yeah, we’re hardy. Hardy like we can take it.
Me: I don’t think I really know what hearty means, anyway. I think we’re hardy like plants because we’re dumb like plants. Plants wouldn’t go out in this shit if they could avoid it.
D: Really, we’re just foolish.
Me: Yes. Dumb as rocks. AND I know how to spell that.
D: Yes. Foolish. Foolhardy.
D: Yes. What time are we going tomorrow?