The wiry older guy came into the locker room, pulling off cap and gloves, exuding that indescribable smell of outdoor cold. "A bit fresh out there," I remarked, getting ready to shower. "Yes," he said, " but better than using treadmills," which I took as a just but unkind jab at such as I, who'd been pumping the stairmaster and watching the Today show.
"Where do you go?, " I queried after a quickie shower (being almost late) and he told me his route through the town and along the river, seven miles in all, and that day, I'm sure, mostly in the teeth of a hard, biting wind. I've run much of it myself, though not in the last few weeks (with the exception of last Friday), and especially beside the river the wind can, almost lift you like a kite. It seems to perforate you and yet, at the same time, obstruct like a wall. Instead of running, what you're doing feels more like stationary windmilling. And cold? Body heat is sucked away as fast as it's made; the core may be warm but the skin is chill.
Still in all, it's only a few minutes of discomfort; meanwhile, the river is beside you, the bridge is up ahead, there's something to be noticed, something to be thought about along the way. Fair trade.
I told him about my route that includes Bunker Hill, trying to hint that I too am a runner if not this winter. We chatted about start times and I thought, "Seven miles... He's serious, not overdressed... It might be fun to have a running partner like this sometimes..." Maybe there are many such people around; I just haven't met them.
Good running, fella. See you around.
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