Wicked Which

I went for two runs on Monday morning.

For the first run I threw on my windbreaker pants, fleece sweater, baseball cap, gloves, and scarf. The wind was almost unbearable. It threw itself right into my eyes, pricking tears instantly. Every lunge forward gave the wind an opportunity to steal precious inches from my stride. My quads froze almost immediately, and numbed to an ice-bath-like temperature for the remainder of the run. My nose ran. I've never mastered the snot-rocket, but the wind was wipping so harshly that it evaporated almost immediately. My lips chapped and cracked within minutes. My throat dried out. The clear sunlight taunted me from far above my head. I ran for 3 miles. They were slow, painful miles. It was like something out of a Russian novel in it's sadness and torturous nature.

The second run had me dressed exactly the same way. But the gloves were too much. They came off. The fleece got unzipped, and I debated losing the scarf and hat. The sun was warm on my skin. I debated the intelligence of not wearing sunblock. The sweat dripped down my temples and dried in salty riverbeds along my chin. I could feel the humidity of my breath bouncing back and forth across my face. My strides were long and confident, and I ripped off the 3 miles like a jigsaw through a pumpkin.

Punch-line? This was an out-and-back run. I started on Monday heading into a 30+mph wind, and ended it with the wind at my back.

Dude. Wind. Not my friend in the winter.