The other day, I went for a run, which is not in itself exceptional. The weather, however, was not cooperating. The air temperature was 17F (-8C), with a wind chill down to 2F (-17C), with winds at a steady 20mph and gusts up to 30mph. There were periodic bouts of blinding snow, blowing horizontally into my face so hard that there was actually snow build up in my eyes. Yet there was little snow on the ground because it was blowing so hard.
I’ve run in much colder weather, but due to all the salt on the road, my feet actually got wet. At mile 2 or so I thought, woops this is dangerous. I’ve gotten frostbite before from wet feet. I considered turning around, then I thought (in the way runners often do), nah, just six miles can’t hurt.
By the time I got back from my run, three of my toes were a delicate shade of black. I’ve gotten frostbite before, but I’ve never seen quite that colour. With a bit of alarm, I immersed them in a hot water bath, gritting my teeth against the pain as the feeling came back to them. (Have you ever done that? Hurts like heck.)
Needless to say, I’m not a huge fan of the winter, or the snow. It is slippery. And cold. Enough said.
Excepted from Snow
Our snow-storms as a rule
Aren¹t looked on as man-killers, and although
I¹d rather be the beast that sleeps the sleep
Under it all, his door sealed up and lost,
Than the man fighting it to keep above it,
Yet think of the small birds at roost and not
In nests. Shall I be counted less than they are?
Their bulk in water would be frozen rock
In no time out to-night. And yet to-morrow
They will come budding boughs from tree to tree
Flirting their wings and saying Chickadee,
As if not knowing what you meant by the word storm.
– Robert Frost