I ran tonight in the cold and the wind. To keep my mind off the weather and the idea of slipping and breaking a leg, I novelized the journey in my head.
Kilometer One: As soon as the first blast of wind strikes me, I feel underdressed. I later find out the windchill is -17. My lower arms especially have just a thin layer of dry-fit covering my elbows, between the end of my gloves and my two t-shirts. Even worse, the wind cuts through my shoes, the same airvents designed to keep my feet cool and dry in the summer are letting the cold air bite against my toes, despite wearing thicker/warmer socks. Undaunted, I continue.
Kilometer Two: The wind on Barrington Street continues to batter me and chases me up Inglis. Despite wearing pants and two pairs of shorts, my knees begin to feel cold as well. Ice and snow crack underfoot as I head down Young Avenue.
Kilometer Three: It feels as if my eyebrows and the edge of my toque have frozen together. I imagine myself running with a permanent expression of surprise on my face. My belly feels weird. It’s odd, as lately before I run, there’s a feeling of nervousness and unease. Maybe it’s because I keep pushing myself to do better, go farther, be faster, run longer. But there’s nerves before I leave the apartment. They dissipate quickly. My belly feels different from that, almost furry or numb. A circle of numb. Losing weight is one of the reasons I picked up running with any sort of seriousness, after developing that belly while my ankle was lame. I’ve since dropped from my peak of 200 pounds down to roughly 187. But there’s a belly or a paunch of sorts remaining. Most disagree, saying that they can’t see the difference or that it hasn’t looked like I’ve put on nor dropped weight over the past six months. But I can and it gives me great pride to not only recognize it, but to be able to stop and reverse what was happening. Either way, there’s still a bit of a gut remaining and it is joining the cries of my body that I should return to the warmth of my apartment.
Kilometer Four: I feel as if I were to puff my face out, my cheeks would crack and shatter. I’m cold. All over. I turn off of Tower and back onto Inglis and keep going. Somewhere in my mind, there’s a battle going on between common sense and stubbornness. My body is saying it is cold and I am refusing to listen. In fact, I am heading in the complete opposite direction from home. I am as far away from my apartment as I will get and I am frozen.
Kilometer Five: Spite is an excellent motivator. As is frustration and anger. Cursing loudly helps a bit too.
Kilometer Six: Sprinting to catch a traffic light on Robie, I suddenly realize that I can’t feel my pinkies that well. In fact, that separation extends all the way down the underneath of my arm, to my elbow. It feels, curiously, like I’ve just hit my funny bone and my arm is tingling. I imagine icicles growing from my ears and I am no longer aware of my chin. It fell off a few blocks back. I think of what I would look like, with my expression of surprise, no chin and long dangly icicle ears. Running is making me a mutant. A deluded mutant.
Kilometer Seven: Crossing University Avenue for the last bit before home, a van waits for me to go across the sidewalk. An oncoming car beeps as he enters the intersection, causing the van to accelerate to avoid a collision and I have to quickly pick up the pace to avoid being clipped by the van. I dash across a last pile of snow, flashing my middle finger at the car as it goes by. Arriving at my apartment, I pick encrusted ice from my sideburns, yet still resist the urge to go back out for another eight kilometers immediately after stepping inside.