I believe I might be part sled dog. It was 20 degrees (F) this morning when I left for my run, and the only part of me that got cold was my butt. My hands and feet and head were hot, even. Since the start of winter weather around here, my running’s been going better. The first week it got really cold, the point where I add a fleece headband and sometimes a neck gaiter to my attire, I dropped about thirty seconds off my per mile average pace. The first day this season that it was actually snowing on me while I was jogging, I dropped 39 seconds per mile off my average pace from the workout before. I don’t have the stamina of a sled dog, but I sure do seem to run better when it’s chilly.
I was sampling a running podcast I’m considering adding to my regular download list, and it talked about training at race pace once a week as a way to get faster. Once a week? I pretty much train at race pace every time I go out, so either I’m training too fast or racing too slow. Fast, of course, being a relative term. My fast is many people’s slow, and I’m okay with that. I’m not in this to win races or be a size four; I just want to maintain some fitness as long as I can as I get older. I want to be able to see a flight of stairs and not look around to see if there’s an elevator I could take instead. I want to keep going on vacations that come in at 20,000 steps a day or more. If the price for that is hitting the pavement in my running shoes at a time of day when I’d really rather be in bed, I’ll pay it.
One year ago, I was a Holidailies slacker.
Two years ago, I finished knitting a red scarf.
Three years ago, I reminisced about February.
Four years ago, I made a Christmas mix CD.
Five years ago, I pondered my belly scar. I still don’t like it, but I’m pretty good at ignoring it now.
Six years ago, no entry.
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