Defying the Polar Vortex gods

According to the National Weather Service, today is the last day in our area that we have to deal with the air mass they're calling “the Polar Vortex.” During the last five days a cold as bitter as Antarctica has descended on the Midwest forcing schools to close and people to crawl deeper into their dens and stay there. Or, if they cannot, put on layers and layers of clothing as they venture out into the arctic air. In conditions like these, frostbite can occur in minutes and exposure can cause death. It's the perfect setting for an epic lay, say, about a man battling the frost gods, like something out of Tolkien's Second Age.

To my parents' chagrin (if they knew about it) and my wife's amusement (she's long since stopped asking, “Why?”), I chose to run through these sub-zero days if only to defy the furies behind this polar cyclone with its hoary blast. I haven't been totally stupid. I've modified my regular routine to meet the conditions, run in the early afternoon when the sun is at its zenith and gone for short distances limiting my time outside to less than 30 minutes. But when my run is complete and I come in from the cold there is something akin to victory that swells in my heart. I braved the elements. I defied the polar vortex gods. I headed into the wind and was careful not to spit into it.

A friend of mine on Facebook yesterday posted this to my wall:

“Thought i saw Pastor Martin and son Edward running by my house this afternoon! Am i going crazy? Its 20 below!”

Well, it may have been 20 below but on the bright side it's 150 below on Mars. No, I refuse to yield and huddle by a heat vent in our home. Polar vortex or no, there be giants to defy and overcome – gigantic slugs of laziness and gargantuan titans of malaise. What's more, when I'm not active all the calories I ingest go right to my waist. Like Gandalf before the balrog on the Bridge of Khazadum, I run into the maw of the Polar Vortex denying it to gloat over this slow-moving object and in my mind at least shouting, “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!”

Like that but with less fire

Hope I don't slow her down too much

Tomorrow I'll drive downstate to attend the Wisconsin Cross Country Coaches Association annual clinic which means I'll have my annual running-date with my niece, Hannah, tomorrow afternoon. It's supposed to be in the mid-20s (as in above). I'm wondering right now if I should even bother packing my wind breaker. Compared to my run on Monday, it'll be at least 40 degrees warmer. It should be a piece of cake to this cold weather warrior.

The few, the foolish and the frozen

“Frostbite is a cold injury in which an area of the body is frozen.

-  The Merck Manual of Medical Information Second Home Edition

A little while ago I just got back from a run. It was a beautiful, sunny winter afternoon that just beckoned to me come out and be in it for awhile. Oh yeah, according to the source I checked it was -17° out. Compared to the -24° that it was early this morning, however, this was the warm part of the day. So, I layered appropriately, through on my wind suit, donned the balaclava, put on my Gortex-insulated trail shoes, broke open a couple of hand warmers and slipped them into my gloves, put on a pair of sunglasses and headed out the door. 

Running in the bitter cold is sorta like this

Ed after a run last week

 I didn't plan to go far, just a short two and a half mile out-and-back course I do when I want something light and easy. The wind was to the west and given I was running north naturally caused my balaclava to fold over my exposed nose. For the bit where I was running due east on Schofield Street I actually felt rather warm-ish - until I reached the long bridge. With no trees to block those piercing gusts, running the quarter mile across the point where Lake Chetek meets Prairie Lake was challenging enough. But compared to what it felt like on the way back it was a cakewalk. Everything after the turn-around point was brutal. It was like getting stung by some angry hornets all the way home.

There really is such a race

Within twenty-five minutes I was back inside none the worse for wear. My nose was a little tender but a few hours later I have no telling frostbite blister to report (which is good as it would be a little difficult to cover up.) To those who ask why on such a dangerously cold day I chose to head out the door anyway, I've been thinking of a reasonably cogent response ever since I headed down the road a few hours ago. Would it make any sense if I simply said that the road called to me and I simply responded? Or if I mentioned that one of the items on my bucket list is to one day run the Antarctica Marathon? When I saw on the news this morning that presently our area was only three degrees warmer than it was at the moment at the South Pole how could I not go for a run? If I can't run in this cold, how can I ever run in Antarctica? And what if I said that the looks I got from most if not all of the drivers of the vehicles who passed me this afternoon was worth the price of admission? In every case, their head would turn my way as they saw me, their eyebrows would rise or their lower jar would fall a bit and I could clearly hear what each of them was thinking: “What the heck is this fool doing out here on a day like today?”

Exactly. Why run on a day like today where it's so cold outside exposed skin will freeze in minutes? Just to answer that question: What fool is running outside today? This one -the only fool running outside in Chetek today and I think that counts for something. 

But at least I kept a shirt on

 

Road rage on Pleasure Street

In the fourteen years I have been running, I have been chased by all manner of dogs and once by a small passel of sheep south of Chetek who had managed to get out of their pen. Numerous times as I have run by a field a horse in amusement will trot alongside me as will cows who are curious as to what this slow moving object is. But early this morning on (of all places) Pleasure Street in Chetek I got stopped by a guy in a truck who flew into a profanity-laced tirade because I wouldn't get off the road. As he hurled “f-bombs” at me he then got into my face and asked if I wanted to “go”. When I didn't accommodate him, he proceeded to insult my manhood further and then got in to his truck and drove off. As for me, I started my route again and angled for home.

For those of us who run we know we have to run defensively. As pedestrians, so long as we're not in the way of traffic, we have the right of way. Early morning runner that I am, even though I wear reflective gear, I never assume drivers see me. For all I know they are fiddling with their radio, texting their friend, sipping their coffee, lighting their cigarette – and for some of them – maybe doing all these tasks at once while driving 55 mph down the road. I can't count how many dark mornings drivers have blasted me with their brights rendering me temporarily blind as I lose all visual acuity. Having said that, as a rule I have found that most drivers are courteous. Once they see me they move to their left a bit putting a comfortable 3-5 feet between us. But from time to time I have to wave my arms if only to catch their attention in case they do not see me or do and don't care to move over. That's what happened this morning.Pleasure hadn't been plowed yet but a few vehicles had already drove down that road. I was running west on the left tire track when I saw a truck with a plow attached heading east at a high rate of speed. Seeing that he wasn't veering to his left I held up my two arms and gestured for him to move over. That's apparently what did it. He slammed on the brake and our encounter ensued.

At first, I actually thought he was jumping out to apologize for driving so close to me until I heard the first of many “f”-words that followed. I did point out to him that he had the whole road to drive around me but that wasn't helpful at all. “Oh, I see...you want to go...?” and then he put his finger in my chest. My response was a quiet, “Settle down.” I remember reading about how when the original running craze began in the 70s, many guy runners had stories of people shouting epithets at them as they drove by and especially enjoyed calling them “faggots.” I always found that curious until this morning when this big burly guy was doing the same to me. Somehow or other a guy in running tights must evoke that kind of response in some guys – or at least, this guy. He threw some more “colorful metaphors” at me, told me (again) that I was an idiot for being out there and then drove off. I resumed my run thinking, “I can't believe that just happened.” I'm still somewhat befuddled by it.

I was never really scared although for a moment I was trying to recall what wrestling skills I used to have in case I needed to defend myself. Really, there's only one other person in the world that I have that effect on – but she loves me anyway. I won't hesitate to gesture again if I need to. Drivers need to remember that if they hit one of us and put in their statement, “I was mad that the guy was out there and that he wouldn't move over” is probably not going to give him a pass with the judge. Of course, I don't want to get hit. I'd rather run and will continue to do so but remain on guard against that guy and any other fool who happens to be offended that I am out there.