I’ve been called the Pippy Longstocking or Punky Brewster of running. Pick your generation, I suppose. I get myself into and out of my own troubles, and I tend to run in whatever multitude of clothing layers I can cobble together on a cold day. The only article of clothing I find indisputably important is the sports bra. It’s my whole support team. (Oof. I’ll take that rim shot now!)
Today was a cold, bluebird day. Beautiful. Crisp. Just under 20 degrees when I set out, with the sun blazing overhead, tricking me into thinking I was warmer than I was. Truth be told, I’d only been running about 15 minutes when I could no longer really feel my legs. Just a slightly rough sensation as I rubbed one wool-covered hand across one reddened thigh. Oh yes. I was wearing shorts. Seemed like the right thing to do. Sunny = shorts. Right? Shorts and a-burst-of-color knee-high socks, socks that, having lost some of their elasticity, would slide slowly down to mid-calf every second mile or so. Annoying. Yet illustrative of the wearisome state of always being “on.” My socks, strangely enough, were telling me, nagging me to relax. I just know they were. Let go, they pestered. Slide a little, slouch, exhale. What a tease. » Continue Reading.