Running: The Chill

I used to run quite frequently. It was one hobby of mine that seemed to be impervious to moderation. I would wake up and plan my day around when I would run. It was a healthy habit that I often took to unhealthy extremes. I would always run exceptionally well during the winter. The cold wind and the somber sceneries will be etched in my mind for a long time. The weather created many new challenges for me on the road. It wasn't just a race against yourself. As the temperature dropped it became a race against the strong winds and the biting cold.

I usually decided on going to run five minutes before I actually do. I'll be laying on my bed wrapped in blankets rolled tight like a cocoon as comfortable as can be. And then I feel this spark of interest. It'll hit me in the mind as well as the legs. It's this nudging sensation that is fueled by my addiction to run. The feeling would cause me to rise from my dulled state with new life. I would get dressed in multiple layers to fend off the stinging cold. The bottom layer would be slick and smooth under armor because it's designed to a bottom layer. The next layer would be optional depending on the severity of the cold. It would be a long sleeve shirt or something that would insulate the under armor. The final layer would be something thick like a hoodie or jacket to dissipate the wind. After the layers have been applied I normally put on gloves or leggings under my shorts to cover as much skin as possible.

When I'm finally dressed I go outside and do minimal stretching in the cold. I remember every time I would open the door a wave of crushing cold air would twist around me and lead me outside. When I'm outside I would gauge the cold and if it was colder than expected I would return inside and redress. If I felt I was appropriately dressed I would begin stretching. Stretching while your muscles are cold feels like you are pulling thick rubber bands in the back of your legs and arms. After I stretch slightly I would usually gaze down the winding road in front of my house and calculate my course. I would start my run in the general direction of where I wanted to go. I could hear my feet tramp softly on the rigid street, each foot continuing a beat that would last for hours to come. The first thing I would notice was the wind. Its chill blasts down my throat and fluttered into my sleeves. If there was any hole or crack in my defense it would fill it. Ignoring this at first seems impossible but eventually it takes a back seat to the second thing I notice. My legs would feel like dead weight running in the cold. All the energy stored under my folds of muscle are zapped by the freezing temperature. I would have to lug each leg up like I was running in a giant pool of wet cement trying to warm them.

After the first mile or two everything becomes easier. My body has warmed from the pumping of my arms and legs and the cold doesn't sting as much. Between this moment and the end of my run is usually when I enjoy the scenery. The gloomy sky that hovers over me motionless could be mistaken as a painting with smooth paint strokes on the horizon and dark rough strokes over head. The leafless trees deep in a black slumber silhouette well against the painted sky. The colorless scheme of the background makes me feel like I am in a world that has aged and departed itself from the vitality it once had. The road, stubborn and unchanging, lends me no comfort. It taunts me with a gray grim face. I curse the road often during my runs, blaming it for my agony. I run on the yellow line; a formidable guide and my only companion. It streaks across the gray and echoes off encouragement in my world of no color.

The end of the run is by far the most difficult. So many things rush through my mind during this time. One moment I'll be thinking about my hamstring and the next I'll be crunching my mile times and estimating how fast I should go. It's a hectic time within myself. The lack of oxygen creates a haze on the outer rim of my vision. I stumble constantly unable to maintain balance. Thick swabs of spit clog my throat and enable me to breathe. I come close to a break down and realize it's the final mile. In a spirited fashion I straighten my poster and strengthen my mental reserve. My legs churn through the fatigue with slow determination. My hips are riddled with cramping like pains and it hurts to lift them so high. Glancing at my watch I notice my pace is slowing so I begin to pump my arms and tilt my head downward (whispering to myself 6:30, 6:30, 6:30; the time my last mile has to be). I take in a large gulp of freezing air and begin to sprint rushing towards my mail box. With one final gasp I pass my mail box and stop my watch, 6:23. I smile weakly only stretching my red numb cheeks slightly. I pull off my hood and walk up the drive way. Each step sends a shiver of hot and cold through my veins. It's a feeling of sickness. The back of my neck shakes desperately trying to hold my head up. I open the door and am engulfed by the hot air from inside. The introduction of the hot air makes my body feel even more sick as it is unable to cope with the rapid temperature change. I remove my soggy clothes and flop them on to the floor. Shivering I step in the shower and turn the water on luke warm, letting my body adjust to the heat. Then when I feel that it is safe enough I turn the water as hot as it will go then I clean myself off and get dressed. After drying my hair and washing my face, I roll myself up into a make shift ball of blankets on my bed. And I sleep letting my legs recuperate for the next time they want to feed my addiction of running.