![]() I know those voices well, but during this morning something about my cold surroundings quelled the voices, replacing them with chilling, stunning, expansiveness. The coward voices inspired to chime in whispered, “Is this even a good idea? Are you giving yourself an injury?” And at last, the critical coach piped up, “Couldn’t you be getting a better workout on the treadmill?” “What’s the point of this?” they provoked. For a second, those all-too-familiar lazy mean girl voices entered my brain. My arches ached by 5k, not used to such a soft surface and erratic motion. Within a mile, my ankles were rolling, my feet splayed out in front of me and the rest of my body jerked around at awkward angles in response. After five minutes and a half mile with more of the same, it was clear this day was going to be painful in a new way. I assumed the course would let up, that the perfect crunch of cold frost would appear. As headlamps clicked on, the gentle fog made from hot breath meeting cold air illuminated an ethereal world, with 50 or so of us shuffling forward into the heart of winter. A 6-inch dusting of snow, my first few steps felt wobbly and a bit slick. ![]() We all made our way to the line drawn in the snow, and with a casual call of “go!” by the race director, we were off. The closest approximation of anxiety or complaint was a man wondering aloud if his wool kilt would be too warm in the 9-degree day (it wasn’t). Rather, the Alaskans embraced the opportunity to be cold in fresh snow, and even, it seemed, excited about it. Absent was bemoaning of conditions and the mutters of complaints common at the start of other races. There was something missing at this race, though. ![]() The usual pre-race rituals ensued: pinning of numbers, nervous chatter, discussion of upcoming ultras, fiddling with shoes. As I entered the warm community center housing the race start, I was enveloped in a palpable energy and sheer giddiness exuded by participants and volunteers (inarguably a harder task than running). The Willow half is a yearly race put on by local residents to honor the end of the darkest dark and welcome the coming of light. I became mindful of my love affair with running cold during a half marathon in Willow, Alaska – an event that started and ended before the sun came up a few days prior to the Winter Solstice this past December. In cold, I find I will not and cannot fail. In cold, I cannot stop, linger, or procrastinate I only have the option to continue moving forward. Cold breeds in me a fear of trying, yet propels me forward relentlessly. The world is softer, draped in delicate blankets of snow while jagged sharp frost cuts my fingers, freezes my nostrils and incites automatic recoil. In cold, there is a stoic stillness and a vibrant intensity. Cold makes me feel at home in the same way the smell of sunscreen reminds me of summer. Indeed, my draw to cold is one rooted in dizzying contrasts. I simply love theĭiscipline, focus, and momentum of training, and the trials of winter trainingīring out my fiercest and favorite version of myself. Keep my specific training and goals mostly to myself. Make no mistake that my allure to cold has Yet, winter running was calling my name louder than the solace of easy things. With temps averaging between -6 to 10 degrees Fahrenheit during the daylight hours of 10am-3pm, it was perhaps a more prudent time to cozy up to an off-season or to reintroduce the treadmill back into my life, rather than risking a host of cold-related injuries and suffering. Winter seemed as good a time as any to commence training for a fast marathon, while living in Anchorage, Alaska.
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