This morning I jauntily set off on my run. The weather app showed cloudy skies and nothing to worry about until high winds around 1 p.m. The temperature was 7 C, that's about 44 Fahrenheit. As I ran my 5K, I stopped and shot a picture of a rainbow. What luck!
When I turned back toward home, the rainbow wasn't visible and the wind began to pick up. Soon the rain joined it. A light misting at first, then it began to pour in earnest. I usually finish my runs with a walk to stretch, but the dire weather convinced me to keep running until the end as hail began to pelt the bill of my Nike cap.
I made it inside the kitchen, soaked and shivering.
"Well that was unexpected," I called to Earl as I walked in the house.
He came to the kitchen and held up my bath towel. "Need this?"
I pulled off my hat and my jacket, handing them to him. I untied my soaked shoes and peeled off my socks so I wouldn't leave wet footprints on the tile floor.
"Is that it?" Earl asked, gesturing to my shirt and my pants.
"Yeah, I'll hang my pants on the radiator upstairs," I told him.
He turned to strategically place my wet clothes on the radiator in the kitchen.
"No show today, folks!" he said to himself.
"You've seen this show plenty of times," I reminded him.
"Yeah, but it never gets old. That's why I bought season tickets."
Guess I'm pretty lucky after 32 years of marriage.
If you were ever to ask me, what part of your body would you want to change, I would, without hesitation, say my legs. My legs are short and I have strong calves and chunky thighs. I'm kind of used to them, it started happening around 5th grade as I hit puberty. I always envy those people with sculpted legs;when they put their legs together, there are three perfect triangles between their ankles and calves, calves and knees, and thighs. That's not and is never going to be me. But today, I'm feeling very thankful for the strength of my legs. So thank you legs, for not letting me down.
Sunday morning, we took our friends' dogs for a walk and snapped a beautiful photo of the clouds in the mountains. Thanks, legs, for being strong.
Then we rode our bike 12 miles to a market and had coffee and pastries with our friends Sue and Steve. Again, my legs came through, pedaling hard, even when we had to go up a steep bit to check on another friends' house.
Saturday, I ran 7 miles! It wasn't fast but I didn't stop to walk, just kept moving, my legs churning and churning, out 3.5 miles and back 3.5 miles. (That's 11.2 kilometers total). It's probably been over a year since I've had a string of good runs, so I have been determined to get back on track, following a training schedule. I can't tell you the last time I ran 7 miles, but I owe it all to those sturdy legs (well, the lungs and heart helped too).
Legs still climbing
Just a few weeks ago we climbed Mount Bugarach, again I owe a huge thanks to my legs, partially my arms too on those very rocky parts.
The next time you think to complain about how a body part looks or how you wish it looked a different way, just think about what an amazing job it does.
This morning, as I rounded the top of a path and stood on the Col du Portel, a winding road that leads through a mountain pass, a rush of wind swept down tugging my hat brim so that the hat leapt backward, hanging on by my ponytail, and the rain began to fall in earnest. And I may have risen my arms in the air, twisting my hands like an Indian God or Goddess in praise and celebration of the power I felt standing there on top of a mountain along the road.
Sheep, including a caramel-colored lamp hiding on the other side of its mother
It's been months since I've had successful runs. I fell at the end of July, and although I worked back to walking and hiking, my knee continued to hurt when I attempted runs. Then another injury in November set me back, and I determined to have an MRI to see if I'd done real damage to my knee.
Meanwhile, though I was left to take walks and to endure lockdown, longing for the day that I could finish my exercise in 45 minutes, eating up the road with my quick stride. Sure, I may not be a fast runner, but running is always faster than walking.
After an MRI and an appointment with a knee specialist, he assured me that I could run again after physical therapy to "retrain" my muscles. I registered with the local physical therapist, who is apparently so booked up that I remain on his waiting list.
If the doctor says I just need some muscle retraining, that assured me that I wasn't going to injure anything further if I started running.
It's been slow though. Running and walking. Watching out for the pain in my knee. Noticing that my knee is better but my lungs are a long way from running again.
Saturday, I managed a 3.5 mile run without walking or gasping for air.
These look like tiny wild roses in bloom, but, if my detective work is correct, may be flowering quince
I wanted to go for a walk or run this morning, but the weather forecast was foreboding -- high winds, rain. It wasn't raining a bit before 8 and I asked Earl where I could go that I wouldn't be in danger of flying tree limbs.
He recommended the road to Ginoles, not too many trees along that road. True, but it was uphill the whole way.
I decided to give it a try. I started running outside my house and was able to continue running until about 1.2 miles, or two kilometers. Considering that it was all uphill, I felt quite proud. I walked on the steep parts and then ran in between. I took a straight path, leaving the road behind to have a chance to run before I walked, out of breath, up the steep path to Ginoles.
An almond tree in bloom and an unsettled sky
As I continued up past Ginoles, I saw a car snake around the "Col" the mountain pass above. Why not? I set out toward the ridge looming above me. Again, there were a few running parts, but more sharp uphill parts.
Olive trees
I continued on, listening to music and singing along at the top of my voice, as much as my labored breathing would allow before I reached the winding road.
The view of faraway Quillan
The only option was to go downhill, sticking close to the side of the road facing traffic and the few cars that passed.
I saw one car that revved its engine and wanted to pass the car in front of it, trying to twist around the curves like a commercial, and I let out a laugh. "Your car might go fast, but you aren't out conquering it by foot!" I thought.
So I wound back into town and kept running past our house until my app indicated that I'd passed five miles.
The feeling of accomplishment and power has lasted all day, feeling the ferocity of the rain and wind and lifting my arms in victory over them -- this time.
This morning, I sat on a mat in my neighbors' front garden. The sun tried to pierce through a leafy green tree and a slight breeze blew to cool us as Stella led me in meditation and yoga.
A view from my run
It might not be for everyone, but the morning had been pretty perfect. It started with a 4-mile run, then a shower before I joined Stella for yoga. She lives in Copenhagen and I have only met her twice when she travels to France to the house next door to us.
The Aude (L'Aude) is a lovely setting for running and meditating.
Stella might think she is an unassuming, polite Danish person, but she is a force to be reckoned with. As soon as we met, she told me I needed to do yoga with her. I have dabbled in yoga, but it has never been my thing. I love running. I grudgingly carved out some time to do yoga with her in July but it became a habit that I enjoyed, but only when Stella is in town.
Stella reminds me a bit of Phoebe from Friends. She lives life with gusto. During the 14th of July celebration downtown, Grace and I were dancing to the band and we had just wondered where Stella was when she "slid" into the crowd and joined us. Her dancing was exuberant and with abandon, like Phoebe's running.
Stella is in it for the joy.
I've learned a lot from her.
I do feel my own kind of joy when I'm running (not like Phoebe!). But I've learned to find the peace in sitting on a yoga mat and feeling the breath move through my body. I'm not anxious about the time any more, and I know that is a luxury because my schedule is flexible (unlike my body when I'm doing yoga).
So many times, when Stella isn't around though, I ask myself, "What would Stella do?" and my first answer is "Eat some cheese," but the second answer is "Take the time to be curious and to embrace life." So more and more, that's what I'm doing.
Thursday morning started so well. The sun is rising a little later, so I can get out while there is still color in the sky.
I'd had a good 4-mile run the day before, so I thought I'd warm up with a run on the road before trying a trail run in the direction of Ginoles.
Lovely view from up on the trail
All was going well until the tip of my foot caught a rock, and I was down on the ground before I could blink, feeling my knee, my elbow, my hands and then my head bounce on the dirt and rock trail.
I lay there for a minute stunned by the turn of events. Then, it was time to take stock.
As I sat up, I considered crying. I'm not a cry-er. I can probably count on one hand the number of times I have cried since my sister died when I was 14. I have nothing against crying; I just never seem to.
A tissue had fallen from my running belt. Its pristine whiteness clashed with the dirt on the trail. I picked it up and unfolded it, placing the clean side against my head. It came away red. Great. My head was bleeding. Next, I patted at my elbow where a deeper gash dripped.
I looked at my knee, an interchange of cuts, a secret tic tac toe game. I didn't touch it. No blood was running yet.
I picked at a few rocks on my palms.
Nothing to do but walk home, I decided.
But first, to take a selfie to share with my running friends. I know, it's a weird thing to do. I didn't even realize I had knocked off my hat.
In this picture, with my face caked with dirt, my nose definitely looks crooked. But I remember thinking as I hit the ground, thank goodness I didn't hit my nose. I've broken my nose on a running fall before. See my post here.
Post-fall
I walked home, down the trail and along the road. I passed 4 or 5 people who all said "Bonjour" and gave me curious looks. I didn't realize how bad I looked at the time -- my white sleeveless shirt was covered in dirt and mud. The waterbottles I carry must have squirted out when I fell, adhering the dirt to my shirt. Earl has washed it in the machine and by hand trying to get it clean.
The knee that I hadn't touched had started to drip blood down my shin, and dirt still caked my face.
When I returned home, I went straight to the shower, hoping to remove the smalls pebbles embedded in my palms, erasing the dirt from my head and nose, and gasping in surprise at the feel of the water on the cuts.
Earl doctored my open wounds with some antibiotic cream. He prodded at gray spots on my palms that could be rocks, and he gave me two ice packs, one for my knee and one for my eye.
Some nice purple eye shadow
Some people may wonder why I document my falls. Shouldn't I try to cover them up? But I do enjoy keeping track of all the pitfalls of running -- at least for me. Blogging is a good way to remember. And when I searched for the post on my broken nose, it helped me remember another fall last year --we were in Massachusetts for the summer and I bruised my ribs on a fall. It keeps me honest.
I'm not really a runner; I'm a plodder or I wouldn't keep tripping.
I'm planning a hike with a friend in the coming week, and she gave me a stern lecture about taking care of myself before our trip.
Friday, I forced myself to rest. No walking; no running; no keeping track of my steps.
Instead, I kept ice on my knee and kept it elevated. My body felt like I'd been in a car accident. Stiff neck, sore ribs, back pain. I went to a friend's house and floated in the water, hoping it would realign me.
Saturday morning, I knew I couldn't have another day of inactivity. But I wouldn't push myself too much. Instead, Earl and I went on a bike ride. Not a long one. We stopped and had coffee before riding back home
Earl ahead of me on the small road
A selfie when we returned. Me -- always looking in the wrong place for a selfie.
Quarantine can be a scary time. The slightest tickle in the throat and we're convinced we're coming down with the virus.
One way I have been coping with the quarantine is running most mornings.
Forsythia blooming with the wispy clouds over the mountains
It's a bit of a debate here with some people raging on Facebook that no one should be out.
I have a hard time justifying why I can't go for a solitary run. I usually pass one or two people on the other side of the road, but I'm not spreading the virus to them and they aren't spreading it to me.
In crowded cities, I know this is more of a problem, so I count my blessings that I live in a small town and not many people get out early in the mornings to go for walks or runs.
Apparently, President Macron has now declared that people need to stay within 1 kilometer of their homes and can only go out for an hour, but if I make a big circuit around my house, staying within a kilometer, I can still run 5 or 6 kilometers.
I rounded a corner and saw dark clouds looming and the sun shine peering beneath
Yes, the run gives off endorphins, but the beauty, the stubborn beauty of nature, reminds me that the seasons continue even in the midst of a virus, even in the midst of a quarantine.
I climbed on a rock to get this picture of the bridge into our town. You can see that there are no cars on it.
The mountains, the clouds, the blue sky give me respite in this time of turmoil. And it reminds me to be thankful for the air in my lungs and the strength of my legs.
Stay safe and be on the lookout for the beauty around you.
The Irish blessing begins: "May the road rise up to meet you."
And that's exactly what happened to me yesterday during a run as I tripped and fell, landing on my hands, one knee and then thudding onto my side. I lay on the hard-packed dirt and gravel road for a few minutes assessing the damage.
At least I didn't land on my nose and break it. I've done that before.
And it's been 12 years, so maybe I should count my blessings that I had a nearly 7-year streak of not falling.
But the fall injured more than my outside. I had just determined that I was going to conquer these hills we are living on for 45 more days.
I'd been sluggish, walking a lot as I climbed the two miles up, then increasing my speed as I went down.
So yesterday morning, I forced myself to run farther before I stopped. I took a flatish detour past a flock of sheep then headed back toward the uphill. I felt confident, unstoppable even, before a rock jutting out of the road caught the toe of my shoe.
In slow motion, I stumbled, my hands outreached. I could stay upright, I could keep going, but a few steps in I fell.
And it's hard to fail at something you consider yourself good at.
I've been running seriously for about 18 years now.
I trained for a marathon and tore my ACL. Nevertheless, I trained the following year and actually ran the marathon. I tout the benefits of running and often claim I use it as an antidepressant.
Yet, a submerged rock reached out to tweak me.
In the past, I have bemoaned that my two hobbies -- writing and running are best done first thing in the morning and I couldn't decide which to devote myself to. Now I haven't written seriously for 18 months, since we moved to France, and suddenly my running is off too.
Who am I if I'm not a writer or a runner?
I told my friend Janine that I felt like the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz with the straw being stuffed back into me, trying to restore me to what I was before.
If a runner falls in the woods and no one hears, did she make a sound?
I had the luxury of sitting on the road a few minutes, gravel embedded in my palms and a little blood on my knee, because the road is seldom used. A fall is different when you're middle aged than when you're young.
The distance isn't farther, but the thud feels harder.
And as I stood in the shower later, trying to take in deep breaths but feeling a pain under my ribs, I played with the idea of a collapsed lung or broken ribs. But by this morning, I decided the ribs were just bruised and I would be okay.
I didn't run this morning. Instead, after I taught for four hours, Earl and I went on a hike in a nearby state park. A few times, I placed my hands across my right ribs, feeling for that tender place where I had landed.
Maybe the fear is what makes the fall worse as we age.
But I can't let fear or inertia keep me down.
Tomorrow, I'll be back on those hills, forcing myself to run a little farther before I stop and walk to catch my breath. And maybe I'll even schedule some time to sit in front of my computer to put down words that tell a story, a story about two women on a trail in France.
I'm a runner.
I'm a writer.
So I'll end with another song, this one by Frank Sinatra who sang:
Now nothing's impossible, I've found for when my chin is on the ground,
"I pick myself up, dust myself off, and start all over again."
I am so thankful to have been able to stay in the house well into the autumn. If we had sold the house immediately, we would have been out already, renting a place or living with friends. Instead, we get to enjoy life in our little village within a stone's throw of downtown Columbus and Ohio State University.
Because we are so close to downtown, the Columbus Marathon runs through the middle of our town. Most years, my friend Sheila and will go walking along the route before the race begins. She has as many deadlines as I do with her husband having back surgery on the same day we close on our house, so I didn't ask if she wanted to walk.
Instead, this morning, I decided to start at our house and run the route backward for about 4 miles.
It can be more challenging than you expect to figure out which way the route goes when not all the roads are closed yet.
Mostly, I relied on judging whether cars were parked along the road. No cars equals Marathon route. Even so, I got confused several times and started down roads before noticing that no banners waved or port-a-potties stood sentry, so I'd turn around and try a different road.
Since I had several false tries, I decided to run 4.5 miles to make sure I reached the total of 8 miles I hoped for. I'm so glad I kept running because I discovered that the marathon is running through a cornfield path.
It's weird in a city of nearly a million people to still have a cornfield in the center, but because Ohio State teaches agriculture, there are cows and cornfields within the city.
I had just run the path through the cornfield last week while waiting for Earl to finish his physical therapy. In the fog, alone, the path is a bit spooky.
But this morning, the sponsor had done a great job making it a highlight of the 26.2 mile race.
These "race car" banners showed runners where to turn.
Then a banner welcomed runners to the field.
Along the way, there were signs with pop culture icons or bad jokes, meant to encourage those reaching the high mileage of the marathon.
The marathon is sponsored by Children's Hospital, so many of the miles are dedicated to children receiving treatment. I started taking pictures of the mile markers and the kids, and got to meet two of the children who had already shown up to support the runners.
Mile 20 was dedicated to Andrew.
He got excited when he saw me and thought the marathoners were already on their way.
Then farther down the road, Amelia had already arrived to cheer for the runners on her dedicated mile.
I ended up running 9 miles, and I was pretty spent by the end, but I'm so happy that I had the opportunity.
It's 4 o'clock and I haven't showered yet today because I have spent much of the day floating in my parents' pool.
My day began around 7 with a run through fog, the air heavy with heat and humidity. After spending the entire day driving to Florida yesterday, it was a relief to be able to move. I passed an escaped dog and the golf cart with owners in pursuit.
I had to do some class work on my computer but had promised Grace I would run with her so didn't take a shower. Grace has been inching toward running with a couch to 5k app. By the time she got up, it was pretty steamy out.
Eureka! I had a genius idea. Let's do the walking and running in the swimming pool.
So Mom, Grace and I did our 30 minutes of walking and running in the pool.
Then we all floated on rafts and chatted. We got out for bathroom breaks and drinks. Grace gave in and went to shower, but I returned to the pool for more floating, watching clouds build up, white ibis fly over, and Sandhills cranes land in the yard nearby. From across the lake, I hear a train roll past with its horn echoing.
A jungle-sounding insect makes repetitive clicks from the nearby lake and cicadas hum in the background.
Mom and Grace tried sitting in lounge chairs to chat with me, but they got too hot. Not me. I was in the pool.
Now I can hear a distant rumble of thunder so I suppose I'll have to abandon the pool, but I'm pretty sure I left my worries in the deep end.
I trudged up the stairs, each foot weighing a hundred pounds. What was the point of taking the stairs when no one was keeping track of it, no one was giving me credit for the staircases I climbed or the miles I ran. No one even knew how many beats per minute my heart pounded for my resting heart rate -- all because my Fitbit broke.
Sigh! The clip on the back, where the charger plugs in, pulled loose from the band, and the little computer circuit fell out too. As soon as it happened, at around 9:30 in the morning with 7000 steps under my belt, I wanted to climb back into bed. Walking anywhere seemed pointless. Of course, I'm being a bit sarcastic, but people like me, who are competitive and inspired by beating our own records, are motivated by things like a Fitbit. I've always made sure I run or walk in the morning, but I could spend the rest of the day sitting in front of my computer if I'm not careful. The Fitbit got me moving, a minimum of 250 steps for nine hours a day. I loved checking on my resting heartrate and seeing it slowly decline to 58 beats per minute -- that's nearly athlete level resting heartrate. Here's what the Mayoclinic website says:
A normal resting heart rate for adults ranges from 60 to 100 beats a minute. Generally, a lower heart rate at rest implies more efficient heart function and better cardiovascular fitness. For example, a well-trained athlete might have a normal resting heart rate closer to 40 beats a minute.
Some "friends" joke that they don't need a computer telling them what to do, but the Fitbit never told me what to do, it kept track of what I did. For instance, I slept every night, but I never knew exactly how long, or how many times I woke up or became restless, until the Fitbit started keeping track.
The Fitbit might not always get it right. Sometimes it might think I'm sleeping when I'm only lying in bed reading, but I suppose that counts as resting too. And, of course, it kept track of my daily steps. For anyone who gets a Fitbit, the daily goal of steps is usually set at 10,000, which equals about 5 miles. I could pretty much always reach 10,000 steps a day so felt good about it. Then, in January, Fitbit suggested that I needed to up my game. It wanted me to set my goal at 14,500 steps a day. It said my average steps were already in the 13,000 range, so I increased my goal. If I don't run or walk in the morning, I have very little chance of meeting my goal, but most days I reach 14,500 steps and some days I knock it out of the park.
So, now, what would I do without my Fitbit? I knew from previous experience that Fitbit had a good warranty. I received my first Fitbit a year ago in February for my birthday. It broke at the charging sight about three months in. Here's where I first blogged about it. I contacted Fitbit and they sent me a new one. Simple enough. So when my latest Fitbit broke, I emailed the company and sure enough, within a day, they responded that they could replace my current Fitbit. Does it make sense though? I've already gone through two Fitbits with the same flaw. I was extremely careful when plugging the second Fitbit in and unplugging it. I knew how delicate those pieces could be, and I still broke them. My neighbor was showing off her Apple Watch. Apparently, it does everything the Fitbit does, plus more. I looked at the cost and choked a little -- between $300 and $400.
"You push a button and it repels all the water from the watch," she bragged. Oh, how I wanted one. My Apple Watch envy flared. I imagined swimming laps and having them count! In class, as I made the students bring papers up to me rather than walking around to them (What's the point if I don't get credit for the steps?) one of my students showed me her Fitbit Blaze. It's like an Apple Watch but not as extensive.
The whole square of the watchface charges so at least I wouldn't risk breaking it in the same way as the others. In its email, Fitbit offered me a free replacement of the same Fitbit HR or said I could take 30% off another Fitbit product, like the Fitbit Blaze. They cost $199, so that would still leave me on the hook for $130 after the discount. Meanwhile, as I weigh the pros and cons, every step I take is wasted because no one is keeping track. What would you do?
Joy at Joy's Book Blog has built up a community of people who love to read and work out.
This week she's blogging about goals.
I'm not great about setting goals for the new year. I have decided I'd like to easily be able to run 10 miles on the weekend, like I used to with my friends. But I haven't actually done anything to make that happen.
This morning I ran four miles in the rain with the temperature around 50 degrees. Warmer than it should be for January. This pic is from another winter run in the rain.
I've had some long runs in the new year, including a 7-mile run last week, but my body is still adjusting to a new way of eating.
I haven't eaten meat since Christmas Eve. I didn't give it up for any noble cause, only because I felt so sick for days after.
It started a few weeks before Christmas. I did a 6-day juice cleanse, drinking only fruit and vegetable juice. Then when I started eating again, I noticed that meat upset my stomach. I tried to avoid meat, but as I visited family or went out, it seemed like meat was always served. On Christmas Eve, I made mozzarella-stuffed meatballs. I only ate one, but my intestines felt swollen and inflamed. So I haven't eaten any meat since. Even the smell of it cooking can make me feel sick.
I never would have predicted I could give up meat. I have loved it forever -- a nice juicy cheeseburger, marinated chicken on the grill, pulled pork sandwiches. But the memory of how sick I felt for several days prevents me from being tempted.
I've eaten some fish, but notice that I feel very full after that too, so I'm sticking with mostly fruits and vegetables. Still, I find myself eating too much bread so that I'll feel full.
Anyway, as I'm figuring out how to eat without feeling sick, there are some days when I have walked rather than run, and I just need to be satisfied with that.
On the positive side, I have successfully reached my step goal on my Fitbit every day this year, even with some days of bad weather.
I wonder if I can reach 10,000 steps every day of the year. That might be a good goal.
Hope everyone else is enjoying an active January.
As I rolled out of bed this morning, I expected the bitter cold, but the weather app promised me snow that wouldn't begin until around 8 or 9 a.m. I drove my husband to work around 6:30 because I thought it was too cold for him to stand and wait for the bus. It's 19 degrees (-7 C) now and feels like 14 (-10 C). As I pulled back into the garage, dressed in my running clothes, I noticed some snowflakes drifting from the sky.
Usually, I love to run in the snow, especially snow with big fat flakes that cover my jacket, changing it from black to white.
But this morning I was dismayed.
I just had my hair cut and the stylist straightens it for me. I can keep it straight for about a week if I don't do one thing -- get it wet.
Once it's wet, it reverts to a tangle of curls. (Yes, I know everyone wishes they had curly hair but that's because they don't actually have them. Plus, I get many more compliments on my straight hair, which some say makes me look younger, than I do on my curly hair.) After I saw the snow, I planned to put on a hood that would cover my hair and my neck, but sometime since I last used it (winter 2016) it has gone missing, so I braved the cold without it.
This snow was not big puffy flakes, but instead prickly ice pieces that stung my cheeks and chin. I really wished I had that hood.
As I ran the first half mile, I began negotiating with myself. Maybe I didn't have to go six miles. Maybe I could run three miles. I'd get through the first mile and decide.
By the time I finished the first mile, I'd warmed up some, so continued my regular route. Into mile two, I noticed that my thighs were so cold that they burned. I suppose that might be a sign of frostbite, but I have figured out after years of running, that fat gets really cold. It's no secret that I carry most of my fat in my thighs and hips. They'll stay cold for an hour after the rest of my body has warmed up.
I haven't figured out why fat holds the cold longer, but I assume that it's protecting the rest of my body and my internal organs, like walruses with blubber.
As the burning continued, I debated who I could call to come pick me up. My friend Sheila is always available to help, but her husband just had surgery. She's already taking care of someone. My son Spencer would be asleep and not respond to the phone. My daughter might drive to pick me up, but she's preparing to drive to New Jersey after work today because her boyfriend's grandmother died.
After I had gone through the possibilities, even seeing a man walk out of his front door and contemplating whether he would let me go in to warm up, the burning feeling had faded, so I continued to run.
I did cut it short, ending at five miles and at a Starbucks before I walked home. The snow skittered along the roads and sidewalks in long lines, not yet enough to cover the pavement.
And when I returned home, that coldness in my thighs returned, as if they were big blocks of ice.
At least I've learned enough not to hop right in the shower where I'll scream from the pain of the hot water on my cold skin.
And as for my hair, I've kept it in a tight ponytail braid and won't know until I take it out if the icy snow returned my curls.
I'm hoping for a few more days of straight hair.
How's your weather? Hope you have sunshine and warmth.
Joy at Joy's Book Blog has built up a community of people who love to read and work out. You know that I enjoy both of those things, so I'm joining in.
I can't believe that I haven't played along with #ReadersWorkouts since October.
At least I haven't stopped working out even though I haven't posted.
I had a spectacular run last week in 14-degree weather with sparkly snow covering the ground. Luckily, the roads had been scraped clean so I didn't risk falling on the ice.
Then on Thursday, I was transported, via airplane, to sunny Florida where the weather has been in the 70s and 80s everyday.
I've run each morning, except one, and it has been fabulous -- if a little humid. I know that no one will feel bad for me that the morning seemed too humid. How bout the fog? Yesterday morning, the outdoors was thick with spooky fog. Luckily, I had my shoe lights on so people could spot me.
I have one more day here in Florida and one more morning run, but I plan to continue working out in the cold when I return to Ohio.
Here I am with Mom and Dad as we take a walk in the bright sun.
Hope your exercising went well this week and hope you enjoy the upcoming holidays.
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