I’ve barely blogged about running lately. It’s hard to write about it when you are barely slogging through and hating the winter.
I still have not nailed down my race plans for the year — still thinking of Fargo, the 50K in Omaha and either the Dizzy Goat or maybe Afton. I need something fun, but it’s hard to look ahead when it’s 20 below outside and all I want to do is sit on my couch in yoga pants and eat cookies.
This winter is killing me.
My motivation, my spirit, my desire to be anything but a fat slug who watches TV and drinks wine all night. I couldn’t even get excited to go run the Frostbite 4, one of my favorite local races. We haven’t gone for a few years, and we should have. It would have been fun and a break from this endless winter.
I’m still managing about 35 miles a week, a spin class or two and some random, super pathetic lunges. But I can’t gin up any joy for a real long run when it’s so cold out — though I know my stress level would come way down if I just went and spent about 3 hours running Saturday and Sunday. The most I’ve managed is 10 on Saturdays. Lame.
Even last week, I was being a crappy mom and a crappy wife and finally put on all my warm clothes and told Philip I was leaving for an hour. About 7 miles later, I was a completely different (nicer) person. I know this about myself, so why do I need to re-learn it like once a week?
This is why treadmill running is so horrible — it’s all the work and none of the joy of actual running. When people say they hate running, they must be talking about treadmills. Because real, outdoor running is nothing but pure joy.
And I need to remember that when it’s so cold out. I have a stack of warm running clothes — balaclavas and hand warmers and giant mittens and tights. And a few friends stupid enough to go out there, too.
I’m writing this as the wind howls and I stare a pile of gear next to my desk at work. Somebody make me go.