In which a bad run is still a run

The way I sometimes wax poetic about running, you would think they're all Chariots-Of-Fire great. And sometimes I forget they're not.

But I was reminded of that this morning, when it was a windy 12 degrees. I bundled up appropriately, but forgot my sunglasses, so the gusts kept making my eyes tear up and I somehow always managed to be running into the wind even though I was changing direction often.

Yet the real problem was I felt clunky and uncoordinated. Slow and shuffling. But I endured because even though it was cold, it was sunny. I got to run. And I had a new playlist, and it was rather kick-ass, even if I wasn't.

My new full-length running tights arrived in the mail yesterday, and thank goodness they did.

It was 12 degrees out when I left. I had a pair of wind pants layered over the tights, so my legs were plenty warm. My arms and torso were fine, too, thanks to a long-sleeve tech shirt, a thin fleece and a light vest. Layers ahoy.

Now, the most interesting thing I realized during this time was while it was literally freezing out, I wasn't cold and I wasn't miserable. Which is odd because I am always, always cold. It was in the teens, most every smart mammal was snuggled warm in bed and I was out, in the cold, running. And enjoying it, even though I wasn't doing a particularly good job.

Will wonders never cease?

These are the little things that are most surprising. When you lose weight you expect smaller clothes and compliments and stuff like that. But it's the little things, like enjoying running outside, or not minding the cold, or becoming a morning exerciser, that are shocking. You learn quickly to exorcise the words, "I'll never..." out of your vocabulary because one day, whatever it is, you probably will.

So sometimes even when a run isn't great and I feel like a truck about to lose all four wheels, I remember that any run you end uninjured is a good one.