Tradition

Somewhere in my brain a screw is loose. For the past few years on the day of winter's first snowfall my mind pulls me outside to go for a run, partly out of guilt that I haven't run all summer (I prefer cycling) but mostly out of the need to assure myself I can survive it. This year it wasn't terribly cold, but cold enough to create an icy path. The wind was also blowing hard, driving the falling ice into my eyeballs while I ran north.

I generally run at night--or in this case, snowfall--so that my slow pace and poor form are hidden from public view. For some reason I find it easier to run in the winter, despite having to wear hat, gloves, gator and many layers of clothing. My real problem with running is that I'm not consistent yet feel like I should be able to go farther and faster. And each year on the first run I end up running farther than I probably should for a first run. My wife, a fantastic runner, rightfully rolls her eyes.

But...what really "brings me back" each winter is how good it feels when I'm done. Coming in from outside, warming up, stretching and waiting for the satisfying muscle ache of a surviving yet another first winter run.