On the Road Again

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We’ve had a string of exceptionally cold weather.

Instead of gloomy rain and tempteratures in the 8 to 10 degree range, we’ve had clear crisp days that are well below zero. (I think our lows have been almost -10!) Some people might not think this is so bad. By some people, I mean the majority of Candians, but this is freezing to us Islanders.

While my hair loves the drier conditions (unsightly frizz, be gone!), the rest of me’s not so sure. I have to plan to leave about ten minutes earlier every morning so I have time to scrape the ice off my car windows. And gloves??? Where the heck did all the winter accessories go?

Then there’s the jogging. In theory I’m still a lean, mean jogger who regularly hits the pavement so hard it’s screaming for mercy. In reality–not so much. I’ve forced myself to go for one short, loping-style jog per week just to keep my sorry self in some kind of shape to bounce back into activity after the spring thaw.

This week is was especially hard to motivate myself. As well as mittens, I had to find a scarf and a toque, an endeavour which took almost as long as the run itself! Then I had to convince myself that I could do this. I can jog in below zero temps. I really can. When we lived the Maritimes, I was a three times/week girl regardless of weather. I regularly ran on slick sidewalks packed with frozen snow in -20 or below. (What was I thinking???)

As no one likes to admit they’ve become softer and wimpier with age, remembering my past exploits was just the ticket to get me out and moving.

I may not have experienced a runner’s high, but I didn’t suffer from my usual plodder’s misery, either, which is worth celebrating.

Ugh–28 Minutes To Go!

006I started running again a couple of months ago.

Actually, as my sailor clarified when he heard me bragging about it, I’m more of a jogger than a runner. Runners are faster and more athletic than me. Since we’re being honest here, I’ll fess up. I’m really a plodder, not a jogger and certainly not a runner.

I resemble a pale hairless Clydesdale as I plod through the neighbourhood three times a week, sweating like a pig and huffing like an angry bull. I become a mobile petting zoo when I hit the pavement.

I don’t go for speed or distance. My goal is to jog, er, plod for forty minutes straight. This is quite an accomplishment for the clumsy girl who was never chosen for teams in junior high PE and whose brief stint on a university residence soccer team ended abruptly when she scored a goal on her own side early in the first game. (Yes, stereotypical humiliations like that really happen.)

To say I enjoy it would be a blatant lie. I’ve never experienced that runner’s high I’ve heard about. Perhaps because I’m a plodder and I don’t think there’s a plodder’s high.

I make a point of not checking my time until I’m well into my jog, hopefully at least half way through. It’s a mental boost for me to find out I’m on the final stretch.

This morning was hot and sticky. I was tired and stiff. Certain I’d been out for at least twenty minutes, possibly twenty-three or -four, I glanced at my watch.

Ugh–28 minutes to go! I’d only been plodding for twelve minutes, yet I was spent.

Not surprisingly, this knowledge didn’t increase my energy or promote a burst of vigour. It dragged me down because I knew the end was nowhere near.

So why do I torture myself by relentlessly counting the months until my sailor comes home?

We’re barely one month into a nine month deployment. I know that. I’m aware we’re nowhere near the end and it’s going to get worse before it gets better. I recognize that he’ll miss birthdays, holidays and family events.

Yet I wistfully flip through the pages of the calendar, counting the months as if time will have magically passed since my last countdown.

I need to jog more and mope less.