The Last Day

Hi Readers: After spending so much time listening to stories on This American Life and TheDirtbag Diaries, I thought I would try something of my own.  I can't say that I've ever set out to write a story that wasn't an assignment and I wanted to get it on the blog before midnight, so it's rough, but here goes... 

Living in the land of no snow, almost nothing excites me more than flakes falling gently to the ground.  I awoke this morning around nine to see streets still black but the sky white with nascent flurries.  I was groggy.  A direct result of forcing myself to wake up on East Coast time, but not being able to fall asleep until normal West Coast time.  That's a cycle I have no desire to stay in, but for now, I'm at its mercy.

Usually, I hit the pavement as soon as I wake up in a desperate race against the school bell, but vacation gives me the luxury of running during the warmest part of the day.  Today, that time would be around noon, when the high would be twenty-four degrees.  The runners in Minnesota must be jealous.  I waited excitedly for three hours, gaining energy from my oatmeal, and failing miserably at the Year in Review quiz in the New York Times (sometimes, it's amazing how little you know or remember).  As I rechecked the weather, it was also around noon that "severe weather" was slated to start and apparently it would feel like nine degrees.  The snow started falling faster and I listened intently for the plows.  With no signs of stopping, I started to regret my grogginess and wished I had been out on the road first thing.  I was also growing increasingly nervous about sharing the snowy roads.  But after a quick email exchange with a runner friend, I was reminded that a treadmill is a lousy place to spend the last day of the year.  Or really any day of the year, but this is the last one I've got in 2008.  My excitement to run outside was renewed. 

Noon hit and I was throwing around every piece of spandex and technical fiber looking for the right combination.  Translation: how much can I put on my body and still be able to run?  I ended up as an advert for JL Racing,Sugoi, Smartwool, Mizuno, Patagonia, Nike, Arc'teryx, Craft, Hind, REI, GoLite, and Apple; a big melting pot of brands but also a physical timeline of my life as a cold weather runner.  I can remember each purchase, some go back to 2003, and what prompted each.  Each article of clothing has a story and very concrete reasons why it remains in the rotation.

I set out into the storm, following in the tracks of the plow, down, aptly, Winter Street.  My first car encounter was with a very slow-moving police car and I tried to look under control, strong, and responsible, afraid that I might be reprimanded for something.  Seeing someone of authority heightened my nervousness about being out, running on narrow roads made more narrow by snow drifts, sharing the road with vehicles that are either driving too fast or in the middle of the road or have a plow attached to them, and on uneven footing.

What might usually be a very average run (not boring, hills are never boring), is made much more interesting when you are trying to find the right footing.  The easiest decision is made when you see pavement.  If you see pavement, run on it.  And pray for more.  Any other decision is like walking through a strange house in the dark.  Just when you think things are going well, you run into a wall, or in my case, slip and fall.  Sometimes the soft powder at the edge of the road is a nice relief as there are relatively few surprises.  But no matter what, running on snow is unpredictable.  That nice powder can often disguise road irregularities and the sewer grates come at you with no regularity.  Complicating things on this day was the fact that it was still actively snowing.  For the first half mile, the snow was driving right into my eyes and I just put my head down and could only listen for cars.  After a while, the wind settled and I could run with my eyes up and taking in the winter beauty.

Most of the ninety minutes I was focused on my feet and listening to my body.  Three years ago, I injured myself running long after a snow storm, an injury that kept me off the roads for more than ten months.  When I felt some of that same pain going up Eli Whitney, I nearly stopped in my tracks.  The pain subsided at the crest of the hill and I glided down the other side, giddy but patient.  I did not feel the pain again, but was giddy at the crest of every hill, with the highlight coming at the top of my last hill, on Mount Pleasant street.  I had pushed up that hill, motivated by the sight of the only non-driving human who was out shoveling.  There is something about seeing someone up close and face-to-face when I'm running that makes me run faster, at least briefly.  I cannot explain this phenomenon, but it keeps me going.

It was a dance along New England roads.  Going back and forth to leave a clear path for the cars and plows, keep myself visible, and find the best lines.  Running in tire tracks gave the best footing and surprisingly there were a lot of cars on the road.  I spent a lot of my mental energy wondering what the car drivers must think of me.  For one, my eyebrows are frozen with snow and that's about all you can see.  It must be a sight.


The roads in my hometown were not built for SUVs and recreation.  They were built for two lanes of travel by average sized cars.  When it snows, especially during school vacation, the sidewalks are neglected and the roads lose a few feet of width on the sides.  It takes constant awareness to be a runner or walker or dog owner in the snow.  Some drivers are kind, slowing when they see you, some even stopping when the road is especially tight with other cars, and giving you plenty of room when they pass.  No doubt, many (or maybe most) roll their eyes or curse at me.  One man in his Jeep honked angrily and motioned for me to move over to the sidewalk.  I smiled and waved at him, as if I had misunderstood his intention.  I hadn't, but I had nowhere to go but home.  I wished I was wearing a bumper sticker on my chest that said, "That SUV makes you look fat," but that would only make me smile more and him honk more.



What will stay with me when I remember this year's New England running experience is not the miles or even the temperature, but the distinct color of the sky.  By some bizarre coincidence, the sky has been a light color gray for every run, with no sunlight at all.  It's a color that is a product of winter and a hue that, for all our overcast days, coastal California does not know.  It was three years ago when I was consistently running through the winter.  That winter left me injured by the end, but I remember this same sky.  

I had the roads to myself back then, as Somervillains (my loving word for the residents) refuse to move their cars once they have a spot on the even side of the road in a snowstorm.  That freedom of the roads is like nothing else I know.  I had a few moments of that road freedom this winter and have it nearly every morning in my neighborhood on the West Coast, and just like when you have the trail to yourself, there's a certain pep in your step when you know that you are the only one in that place at that moment, doing something that is not easily done.

And when I came to the end of this snowy run, I was still gunning for more and anxious to run further, longer, and happier.  This was the perfect way to end the year; a year that started with me wheezing through three miles in Connecticut, steamrolling through San Francisco in the spring, ignoring the noise in Nicaragua, anguished in Atlanta, and now resilient and ready to keep pounding the pavement.

Cheers and happy adventures.  And don't stop.