Thin Ice

I don't mind the cold...much. On days when the temperature hovers in the teens, it's a little bit more difficult to get out the door but once the first couple of miles are behind you, the run feels good. And when you get back and your body is steaming like a draft horse, you can afford to laugh at the cold.

And rain is rain. I mean, the first few minutes are the worst until everything resolves into a damp mush, and then it's just a matter of having the sense to know when to come in and shuck off those wet clothes and spent the rest of the afternoon drinking hot cocoa.

I actually like hot days, and you'll never hear me complain about hot weather unless its a matter of having to race in the heat. Summer racing is always a little dangerous, but I don't mind a heat wave for everyday running. There's always the pleasure of waiting for sunset and then running through suburban streets on a summer night.

But ice?

Ice -- especially that thin, can't decide between rain and snow, didn't shovel the sidewalk version -- is the worst. I really resent it when all my favorite outdoor running routes are blighted with these frictionless stains of frozen slop. Each day I hope that the temperature will rise enough to melt the ice patches, or drop enough that they won't keep reforming at night after the sun melt during the day.

I go for a run, and every quarter mile I'm taking some ridiculous evasive action to avoid slipping and cracking my brittle bones on the road or sidewalk. And there's nothing redemptive about this. It's not like I'm getting tougher by doing this kind of running. I just end up sore from changing my stride. And then, I'll hit a patch of bare pavement and I'll suddenly feel grateful -- grateful! -- that the city deigned to plow ithis particular stretch of Comm Ave.

It's enough to make you do your long runs inside a parking garage.