Day 111/Day 19: Running for my Life

Yesterday, it was something like minus-22 when the cabin fever hit point critical. I pulled on my insulated running tights – the ones I got a year after my divorce, when I started running. Those tights are five years old now; they've seen a lot of winters and a lot of miles. I doubled up the layers on top and borrowed a face mask from my mom's collection of warm clothing, most of which contains a wadded-up Kleenex or six. Then I headed out into the icy afternoon.

The cold took awhile to hit me. In fact, it hadn't penetrated the clinging layer of room temperature by the time I passed my neighbour halfway down the street. He was dressed like he was going hunting on Mount Everest, piled with goosedown and camouflage. He was so layered up, he looked twice his actual size.

"Pretty committed runner," he called as I passed, giving me the wide-eyed look that says 'You're crazy.' I said I didn't know how committed I actually was. "Who knows how far I'll get," I called out before trudging off in the cold-squeak snow.

It wasn't long before my eyelashes froze and the stray curls turned white with frost. I passed silent construction sites and frozen cars until I made it to the fire road that led to my favourite path through the forest. I love this path, heading southeast and away from all the houses and condos, deep into the forest, toward the canyon at Cougar Creek.

I haven't been on this path for awhile. I mostly avoided it in the fall when the bears were still low in the mountains. Two years ago, a woman got killed out here, running just like I was, and the thought of a mauling really takes the joy out of it. I went up there only once this year, stopping at the place where the path turns south to look at the map. As I stood there, I got that creepy feeling. The feeling of being watched, and I heard a crack somewhere behind me. I bolted, sprinting all the way home, my lungs burning in my chest.

But yesterday, I decided to try it, running into the cold, clear silence in between the trees. If there's a place that looks like peace feels, this is it. The only sound is your feet and your breath. The light was still good, but I was getting pretty cold by the time I got to the trail map. I turned back toward home, feeling the icy sting on my legs start to burn.

In my running glory days, minus-22 was nothing. Most runners have their cut-off points, the temperature at which they refuse to go outside. Either I was brave or nuts during those first two years, but I didn't have a cut-off. I'd run no matter what, packing on the layers and venturing out, even in 30-below or colder. I was driven by something larger and perhaps warmer: the need to stay moving through big grief. Cold weather couldn't faze me. In fact, nothing could.

On my way back home, I thought about my neighbour's comment again and I laughed. No longer could I be mistaken for a committed runner. Now, I'll not go running at any flimsy excuse, instead of the other way around. I was still smiling when a woman in an SUV pulled up beside me and rolled down the window.

"There was a cougar back there on the fire road," she said, giving me that same 'You're crazy' look Mr. Camouflage had a half hour before. "Been three sightings around here in the past day or so." I'm a pretty committed runner, I thought, waving as she pulled away. I picked up the pace and headed home.