Egad, not doing that again.
I have an unusual relationship with the cold. I like it. I always have. I like the nice, bracing sense it gives one, walking around in it; I like the way it activates my sinuses and clears the rest of humanity indoors. My idea of a good time is to go for a jolly fun swim in the ocean in the middle of winter. When my classmates are showing up to campus with only a nose or, on a brave day, a lock of hair poking out, I'm showing up in thin cotton skirts and a tee-shirt. This has earned me nicknames such as "polar bear," "Abominable Snowwoman," and "you crazy fucking bastard what the fuck is wrong with you."
So, when I decided to start the couch-to-5k thing at six o'clock this morning, I didn't think anything of the weather-I put on a light skirt, ankle socks, and a tee-shirt, and took off. I mean, I noticed that it was cold when I stepped outside, sure, but what of it? I'm out in the cold all the time, and I was going to be moving around, so I shouldn't even notice it. Right?
At first, it was normal enough. I mean, I got that horrible, I'm-breathing-frozen-chlorine-gas feeling deep in my lungs from the cold, dry air, but I'd budgeted for that. I assume that it happens because I'm horribly out of shape. (I hope so. Please tell me that goes away.) Then, about fifteen minutes in, I started to get this odd, sort of transported feeling and noticed that I couldn't move my face. I continued. I got more transported. Let me tell you, transcendent experiences are overrated.
Anyway, I eventually make it back to the apartment and discover courtesy of the thermometer stuck to the living room window that it's fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. Not that cold, but evidently cold enough for Elliptic. And the moral of the story here is that my relationship to the cold is not nearly as fucking unusual as I thought.
I think I'm a mid-afternoon kind of runner.
ETA: Only, I just read about the cold snap folks up north are having, and now I feel like a total asshole for complaining about ours. D: Stay warm, northeast-types.
So, when I decided to start the couch-to-5k thing at six o'clock this morning, I didn't think anything of the weather-I put on a light skirt, ankle socks, and a tee-shirt, and took off. I mean, I noticed that it was cold when I stepped outside, sure, but what of it? I'm out in the cold all the time, and I was going to be moving around, so I shouldn't even notice it. Right?
At first, it was normal enough. I mean, I got that horrible, I'm-breathing-frozen-chlorine-gas feeling deep in my lungs from the cold, dry air, but I'd budgeted for that. I assume that it happens because I'm horribly out of shape. (I hope so. Please tell me that goes away.) Then, about fifteen minutes in, I started to get this odd, sort of transported feeling and noticed that I couldn't move my face. I continued. I got more transported. Let me tell you, transcendent experiences are overrated.
Anyway, I eventually make it back to the apartment and discover courtesy of the thermometer stuck to the living room window that it's fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. Not that cold, but evidently cold enough for Elliptic. And the moral of the story here is that my relationship to the cold is not nearly as fucking unusual as I thought.
I think I'm a mid-afternoon kind of runner.
ETA: Only, I just read about the cold snap folks up north are having, and now I feel like a total asshole for complaining about ours. D: Stay warm, northeast-types.