It’s getting cold out. Just cold enough where I have to actually give a moments thought to the age old Shakespearean paradox : To short, or not to short. Or something like that.
40 degrees. Constantly. Just chilly enough where you’ll be pretty cold for the first few miles in shorts but pretty warm during the last few miles if you wear pants. What would Hamlet do?* Here’s several reasons, prefaced in the great Hamletian tradition, why I hate cold weather running.
The Slings and Arrows of outrageous bloggers…
I hate putting the wind pants on. First, it covers my legs and, fuck, I got nice man legs. I think a few of the more masculine ladies would even be pretty envious. These babies should be high kicking somewhere on Broadstreet rather than covered in nylon and trapped in heat and sweat on a lonely mid-Michigan road. I don’t care if you think less of me since I dared to suggest that I’d make a terrific show girl. I’m comfortable and confident in my me. Besides, it’s not the fantastic legs that should open me up for scrutiny. It’s the lipstick.
To run, perchance in long pants. Ay, there’s the rub…
Second, I can’t stand the clichéd swish-swish sound of the pant legs as they rub against each other during the initial stages of the run. Probably not a problem for the less developed hamstring set amongst us but, for me, very annoying. Then, half way through, the pants are clinging to your legs with moisture and you entertain thoughts of stripping down right in the middle of the sidewalk and tossing them aside. And then being arrested (again) for indecent exposure.
To grunt and sweat under a weary run…
Third, it’s all about the nipples, man. They get cold when the wind blows head on. I’m not a turtle, little fellas, you can’t come back inside. Stand strong. Stand proud. This time of year reflects my nipple length/mileage inverse relationship. The longer the nipples grow the fewer miles I log. One or the other; you can’t have both. Sure, I’d love to be the guy with one inch nipples knocking out 50 miles per week but it’s not gonna happen. Rage on Midwest fall, rage on. At least give this fella some tassels.
And lose the name of action
Finally, I am a runner. That is what I love. That is what I shall do. Though the thermometer drops, the pants raise, the nipples extend, I will not die by the cold steel sword of winter.
To short, or not to short? It makes no difference. Either way, I’ll be out there running. It’s a simple answer. I will not be deterred. Hamlet, what an indecisive wimp. You can’t make up your mind and then you go swinging swords and flinging poison? Someone has ish-you's.
He wasn’t a runner.
* Besides stab and/or poison any and every body after a prolonged period of introspection.