Have you ever wanted to castrate someone with a clawhammer and the blunt end of a thermos?
Me neither. I’m not even sure how a person would go about doing that. But last week, there was a day I felt angry enough where I could have figured out a way.
I was at work. It was a Sunday and we were crazy busy. Around 12:30PM, my wife sent me a text message that I didn’t get until a few hours later. This is her Facebook post, which relates (more or less) the gist of what happened while I was at home.
It’s a beautiful, cold, snow-covered day. The sun is bright and the sky is blue, making everything a blanket of blinding white.
The snow came two days ago, starting two or three hours after my post about there not being any snow. I’d guess we ended up seeing about six inches of the cold stuff before it was all finished. School was cancelled, work was cancelled; even Daniel’s college classes were cancelled yesterday. I spent the morning on a mission—making a stocking cap.
I knew the cold was coming, and the most uncomfortable parts of my recent runs have been, not my much-neglected legs, but my freaking ears. So the night before all the snow started, I waddled over to Michael’s and picked up some tweed woolen yarn. Fisherman’s wool, it said. I suppose they wanted me to knit a turtleneck sweater with it so I could look like Ernest Hemingway. Instead, I began crocheting a stocking cap.
Well, after a couple false starts, it finally came together after about six hours of work.
I sat in the living room, staring out at the snow, anxious for the run in the cold. I’ve conquered you!
Well, I finished my hat, and it was 12 degrees, with a wind chill of -6. Awesome new cap on, and gloves, and a scarf, I made my way down the stairs to the Green Trail to being my run.
About 400 yards from our house, an Asian lady warned me “Careful, is very slip over there.” She wasn’t kidding. The trail was icy and covered with a slick of snowy crud. Well, I was walking at the time, during my five-minute warmup before the real run began, so I gave her a nod and kept on keeping on. I passed a man and his little girl sledding down a pathetic hill. It was cold enough that I bet they gave up soon after.
About one mile after the run, right past the covered bridge, I had my first slip. The trail there takes a sharp turn, and begins a slight descent. Well, my foot hit the ice, and I did one of those amazing stretches that makes your groin shriek in protest. My iPhone went skittering down the trail, and came to rest about six feet away, in a snowbank. It didn’t hurt much, other than my pride (I admit to taking a quick glance around me to see if anyone was watching the fat man fall). I also gave my knee a bit of a raspberry, but I wasn’t any the worse for wear.
I turned around and came back. I decided to push my pace toward the end of the run, and true to the lady’s word, I hit the Very-Slip-Over-There Spot and my ankle went out from under me. I jarred my shoulder on the fall, and twisted my ankle. This time the iPhone went even farther, again into a snowbank (there are lots of those). I limped home, my pride wounded, and this time also my ankle, which throbbed all night. I iced it up, and I have a four day break until my next run. I can walk on it, as long as I don’t take any sharp turns.
Stupid hat. Stocking caps make me trip. But hey, at least my ears were warm, right?
My second run training of the year, I decided to brave the weather, and march to Lake Anne Village Center. The stairs from our condo down to the paved trail were quite slippery, covered in ice and snow. The day was clear and crisp. Within 50 yards, my legs were noticing the cold and were begging me to turn around and put on a second pair of pants. My slightly-too-small stocking cap that cleverly says HATE—the E is crossed out, folks, making it just a Hat! Pacifist yuks all around!—anyway, the hat kept slipping up my head and uncovering my ears. Each step was deliberate, icy, snowy, and kinda dangerous. Continue reading Beautiful Sight, Happy Tonight→
Here I am at 3PM on my day off, all determined to squat and grunt and squeeze out a blog, whether or not the world wants a new one. And you’re very welcome for the sudden insight onto my brain, and its preadolescent gravitation toward poopoo humor. Continue reading Over the River and Through the Woods→