When I think of snow, all I would like to do is stay inside, wrapped in a blanket, drinking a cup of coffee, and reading a good book. And, on long cold runs, I imagine myself doing just that, slipping into another conscious state that I think is more real than my feet on the trail. I have to tell myself that I am really running in the cold on a snow-covered trail and there is no cup of coffee in my hand. I look around at the trees and dead leaves filleted on the rocks and realize that my running brain has tricked me once again.
The wind blows cold tears down my face mixed with snowfall from the barren branches. I sniff the snot back into my nose and squint into the snow glare. There is something to be said for the quiet that follows a snowfall–brittle branches break under my feet from the cold snap, the trail crunches like granola, and I make new footprints in the untrodden snow. The whoosh of the train nearby is clear and louder than in summertime, unmuffled by heavy green leaves.
I almost wish for an undisturbed blanket of snow so I can be the first to run though it, lie down, and make a snow-angel. Almost. For now, I’ll bundle up and dream of spring.