Spring is officially springin'. I know I'm in the minority, but I'm always sad to see winter go. I love winter. As someone who is always wishing the world would slow down, turn inside, and still itself, winter is a rare time when exactly that happens. The world becomes quiet; a kind of heavy cover lays itself over everything here.
When I say turn inside, I mean that metaphorically: winter is one of my favorite times to get outside. Fall, to me, is perfect weather, and the most beautiful time to be in nature; spring's nice, too, with all its returning verdancy and explosive color. Summer's a nice vacation—I appreciate how short the summers are here, just enough time for me to enjoy wearing little clothing, but not so long that I get too sick of being hot.
But I truly love being outside in winter. Maybe it's because the rest of the world is so reluctant: it ends up being a miniature fulfillment of my ever-present fantasy, which is that I'm unleashed on a world that is empty save for me, for me and my beloved and our dog. I love the sharp bite of cold, the rosy cheeks, the steam of breath, the livening chill. Winter is a great time to go outside and remember that all life dies, and is reborn, and that includes us, all of us, me and my beloved and my dog. I find winter landscapes beautiful, a kind of spartan Martian quality that stuns me with its simplicity and drama.
And, boy, I sure do love running in the winter. It's annoying sometimes, sure, having to get bundled up, wanting to run and knowing the sidewalks are icy, seeing that the temperature is -40 F because of insane winds. But then spring rolls around, and the temperature starts to climb up, slowly at first, and I find myself inordinately grateful for every cold breeze that still manages to find me. I know that summer will bring sun and heat and sweat, that the humidity will turn the air into a hot tub, that my legs will feel great and that I will hate everything else about the run.
Last summer, I was so ready to beat it. I'd spent the winter running and felt ready for the seasonal shift. I can do this, I thought, bring it on, you hot bitch. And then, of course, it was hard. Harder than I thought it'd be. Harder than I wanted it to be. Harder than I felt capable of handling. I kept up my consistency, but each run was miserable: my legs felt tired all the time, my breathing tanked, shorter-mile runs left me feeling like I'd never run before. The great part about learning things is that you really do start to believe that what you find yourself to be capable of can change, will change in the future, if you can only figure out what wants changing. The shitty part about learning is that each new, hard-won starting line must necessarily become the image in your rearview mirror. I sometimes have a hard time remembering the depths of the journey that got me here.
I've got two things in mind this year, as the days start to warm and I have to leave my cold winter runs behind me. The first thing is to expect that it will be hard. I will not like it, probably not often, maybe even rarely. It just gets hot, and the heat is hard, and if I'm expecting an easy enjoyment, I'll be disappointed every time. I can still find enjoyment, even if it isn't necessarily accompanied by ease. Which leads me to the second thing: going slow is a great way to invite ease to come along. I'm not running for speed, though running fast is fun and feels like an accomplishment. No—I'm running to run, so who cares how long it takes? A slower run just means more time running, and running is the thing that I enjoy. I can make it easier on myself. That's in my control.
I'll miss you, winter. As always, I'm looking forward to when you come around again.
running