This winter has been atypical weather-wise; for runners, it has been great. There has been very little snow and temperatures have hardly fallen below 10 degrees sub-zero. All of the winter storms have been out of my region, leaving me secretly hoping for a snow day while still thankful for the excellent running conditions this year has brought – for winter, that is.
On Sunday, I did make it out for my long run (you may recall I spent last Saturday in bed). It was windy, yes, but temperatures were hovering between 2 and 6 degrees. I left my hat (wore a band around my ears instead) and outer shell at home, something I’ve never been able to do in February. At the end of my 10 miles, I felt good, but the next morning was a different story.
The monster at the back of my throat appeared. Now, for me, sore throats and coughs almost always lead to bronchitis so this visitor was not appreciated. I held off running, day after day after day. Nothing was improving, but nothing was deteriorating either.
My anxiety, however, was sky-rocketing with each day of non-running. The half-marathon “that doesn’t really matter” is next weekend and I need to, at least, feel prepared. So, last night, I headed out for a quickie.
Conditions were miserable. It was becoming dark so visibility was poor; there were what could almost be called white-outs so visibility was worse. The sidewalks were puddles of slushy snow – clean, but still slush. This was a bizarre contrast to what I ran in just 5 days earlier when I dreamed of being in fewer and fewer layers.
But, when I got home, I felt great – and that was completely unexpected. My breathing was fine and the monster seemed to have run away. I guess I must have exhaled him during the uphill climb. The coughing subsided, my throat didn’t hurt (although my voice is still not normal), and my anxiety about the half, now only 9 days away, dropped.
Wierd weather. Wierd body. North of 49.