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It Takes Ten Minutes

March 25, 2010


Today was too cold to warm up. You know what I mean. I went running first thing in the morning, when what I really wanted to do was sit at Fritz Pastry, read the paper, and have a latté and an onion quiche. I can’t have coffee before a run and all I saw on the way to the trail was people holding cups of coffee. Damn it. I usually spend 5-10 minutes stretching before I start, but today was too cold for that. My hands were freezing, the galvanized post that I push against was already frozen. Forget it — I just started running. Running and cursing: Son of a b**ch! Son of a f****n* b**ch! (I love it how Biden promoted bad words to a new level.) I should have just gone to the gym today. But I refuse to yield to winter after I personally worked so hard at making spring happen. Running and cursing. And then, after ten minutes, I suddenly felt this sensation, like when novocaine wears off. I felt it coming, like when watching the progress bar on the ‘Fill’ function in Photoshop. Then my whole body warmed up in an instant, as if it suddenly changed color. Then the cursing stopped and the nicety began. I looked up at the other daredevils on the path, gestured ‘hi’, mouthed ‘morning’, nodded. The noise in my ear buds became music; a soundtrack was playing at regular speed while my body was battling the wind in slow motion. The sign by Oak Street Beach read: “Approaching Congested Area. Proceed At Walking Speed.” I kept running. I examined the crowd: a mom pushing a double baby jogger, a homeless man, and a guy running with a weighted backback, possibly training for some crazy ultramarathon. Two bulldozers were spreading sand, levelling off the lake front. In three months this area would be congested. In a few minutes, I thought, I would have coffee.





Art: First Of The Morning Winter Sun, by CC Chapman, available under Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative license

http://www.flickr.com/photos/cc_chapman/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0
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