10 degrees. 8:25 a.m. Good time for a run.
Three miles around the Hill School campus. The only good thing about that run is it’s over. Yes, it’s over. Icy, divot-filled, pock-marked trail along the woods, a few patches of frozen, frost-covered grass, past the ice-gleaned pond, around the lonely baseball diamond, over the smooth but crunchy soccer fields, the wild grasses, bent over with frost. It’s frigid early, well, you notice the cold, the first steps are painful, pitiful, labored, laborious. A half-mile or so, the cold subsides, a rhythm begins, finger tips feel it, that’s about all, I pull down the bandana around my chin, lower the zipper of my vest, up the hill to the flag pole, my breathing is all I hear, down the hill, I hear the wind for the first time. I wonder what Miles is studying, first period.
Early morning running does free up the day, staves off that impending dread of an afternoon run, the foe that won’t let go. Today, it’s free. I won’t bother with the yearly totals, too small to matter. We’ll see about 1,000 miles. It’s a long way off.