The frigid north is blowin' its way down here today at about thirty miles per hour. Smells like the crispness of a Minnesota winter. Back in my running days, on a day like they're havin' today up in the Gopher State I'd grow a white beard of frost on the yellow knit tube that covered my neck and jaw. Frozen tears on my cheeks. Ah, those were the good old days.
Over the tens of thousand miles I covered none stand out as much as a fourteen miler at thirty-one below. Bluebird sky, dead calm, snow squeakin' under Adidas. Can't say I was cold at all. I cut off to the west at Lake Calhoun in south Minneapolis to run the fairways of the Minnekahda Club. Come Spring I'd have been quickly kicked out or maybe arrested. But on that morning, with a foot of snow on the ground to trot through, I was as alone as I could be. Hell, at that temperature I had the city to myself.
Minnesotans flaunt their love of winter. Of course that love has its limitations. When the thermometer bottoms out or the wind chill hits minus sixty only the fools head out of the door. I look at it this way, so long as I can look in the mirror and see a fool lookin' back at me I'm still alive and kickin'. And havin' a fine time in my own quiet way.
On the other hand, till the wind takes a rest, the long rod will have to sit in its corner and wait.