The stinking cold, wet, icy, snowy, windy, miserable, even-the-depths-of-Hell-have-to-be-better-than-this Idaho weather.
I can't remember the last time I ran under what could even remotely resemble a sunny sky.
Seriously, folks... can't remember.
Seems for weeks now I've been running in crummy conditions and my performances are suffering. I officially start training for my third marathon on Monday and instead of heading into it with a gung-ho full head of steam, I'm dreading it like it's a death march. I don't know if I can do this.
Seriously, folks... don't know.
Today, I ran-- no, make that tentatively jogged-- 10 miles through half a foot of snow on roads that hadn't yet been plowed. The sky was dark and threatening to drop more of the white stuff any moment. The wind was howling; the snow was drifting. I felt like I was on some extreme Himalayan adventure, complete with several layers of clothing from head to toe and ice cleats covering my shoes. My exposed face was attacked with what felt like hundreds of tiny darts. The ponytail in my hair turned into an icicle and could have been used as a weapon had I any need to defend myself. I didn't, of course, because no other person or animal is crazy enough to go outside in weather like this, let alone run ten miles in it. To top it off, when I finally got home, I took a few minutes to stretch and hydrate then slipped into... you ready for this?... an ice bath.
Why do I have such a fetish for torturing myself?
Somebody please help me.