Die Hardish

I like to think of myself as a DIEHARD when it comes to running. I brave the cold, wind, sleet, rain, and rotting, ditch-strewn animal carcasses. I’ve run in sub-zero temperatures. I’ve gone on a suicidal 95 degree 18 miler. I’ve raced an approaching tornado home.* I’ve taken a huge dump next to the local high school football stadium because I had to and, dammit, that’s what a runner does. In short, the weather (or bowels) doesn’t stop me. I’m like a postal worker, I guess, but less angry and without a firearms permit.

I only missed 2-3 scheduled runs all of last year. I thought that was pretty good so, to celebrate, I’ve gone ahead and missed two this January already!

I’ll run in any weather but, you know what, that looks awfully cold out there. While I was drinking my fresh, hot coffee and gazing out at the quiet majesty of a winter’s morn recently, I saw a squirrel pop out of a hole, scamper over to another hole clenching a sharp stick in its teeth, disappear inside, and emerge a few moments later with the skin of another squirrel that he then wrapped around himself and tied underneath the neck before heading home to his hole discarding the bloody stick on the way. If I could read a squirrels thoughts – and who can’t, really – it seemed to be saying ‘Fuck, it’s cold out’ or ‘Who’s the bitch now, Mr. Nutty?!’ I couldn’t tell for sure.

While in the past I’ve definitely been DIEHARD. I would say, so far this year, I’ve been Die Hardish. After bitching and moaning for a half hour, I usually lace up and still go out. One of the two runs I missed was not because I wanted to but because we had other plans that interfered. As usual, once you actually get out in the cold it’s really not so bad. It’s the ‘getting out’ part that’s the hardest.

I always feel like I sprout a few more chest hairs whenever I return from a particularly frozen run. My voice drops an octave. Hell, my testicles droop a little more (that’s good right?)

For the first time in four years, I’m not running a spring marathon so I've had the luxury to take January a bit easish. I have a half marathon in May . I don’t need to kill myself with winter LONGRUNS. I’ve been content with winter longish runs. Maybe that’s wimpish. I’m sure I’ll hear about it from you January DIEHARDs and I don’t really careish.

I’ve capped my long runs in the 7-8 mile range. Sure, that’s not the same as taking a John McClane leap off an exploding rooftop with nothing but a fire hose to keep you alive (t.w.s.s.). It’s more like riding in a fast moving elevator without handrails. It’s not DIEHARD but Die Hardish?

I’m comfortable with that. Just like I’m comfortable with the fact that one of you is going to call me Steel Magnoliasish in the comments.

Happy trails.

*Contents of this post may be slightly exaggerated.

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FYI: My photo editting skills, while not great, are certainly improving, no? The necks almost align in each picture!