The Hard Routine

I found this little note today. It's a brief look at what happens before dawn, many months before race day.

I’m sitting at the base of my steps, head between my knees and staring at my feet, questioning myself. It’s near -30F with the wind chill and I’m wrapped in polyester, nylon, and elastane.   It’s well before 6:00 AM  and still dark; my wife is not more than 50 feet away, snuggled deep in the warm bed I just left.  It’s the 6^th consecutive day of running and I’m stiff, sore, and tired.  The ice on the sidewalk and roads is now hard enough that I’ll barely have any traction from my yaktrax. I don’t even know if I can run today.

But I made it this far this morning.  I made it to the base of the steps, ready to go.  I might as well see how awful this is going to be.  I slowly stand up, feeling the stiff and unwilling muscles in my legs and lower back.   I walk outside just as a blast of arctic air whips causes vortices of snow to swirl around the porch light.  This is going to be a rough one.

I push the start button on my stopwatch and start running.   The stiff, disjointed movement quickly becomes the fluid run of a body that’s covered hundreds of miles.    My mind immediately switches to a primal survival mode: Am I warm enough?   Why is my right hand cold and the left one isn't?   Watch that spot,   there’s a hole there.

A mile in and my eyes are watering  from the frigid air.   The brain freeze from a hat that was slightly out of place is starting to subside.  My hands start to hurt. Good, that means the blood is returning to them, I’m warming up.

After the run,  I slowly walk back up the driveway, looking back over my shoulder.  My breath has coated my beard with ice. The wind still howls and the sky is just starting to become light.   Maybe tomorrow will be warmer.  Maybe tomorrow will be better.