When I woke up this morning and checked my phone, and it had blown up. Local running friends all had a variation of the same question, "What are you doing today."
Here in Pottsville, Pennsylvania, the heart of the anthracite coal region and the home of the Yuengling Brewery, we are buried under 24 inches of snow, courtesy of the Blizzard of '16.
Yesterday, I carved lanes in the yard for my dogs, shoveled and plowed the driveway for three hours. In anticipation of the storm, I scheduled a day off from running, leaving my fitness to the hearty upper body workout of snow throwing.
My answer to my friends?
"I'm going to run a couple of very slow miles."
Oh, and it will be interesting.
"You should be doing this," I'll hear from folks, breathing hard, leaning on their shovels, pointing to their cars or recently cleared sidewalks.
"I already have. You should be doing THIS," will be my reply.
With glee, I'm sure I'll be spackled with brackish, salt riddled slush as vehicles rush by, in a hurry to go nowhere.
I'll come to a near, or perhaps a complete stop, as narrow streets pit me against large machines, a battle I can't win.
Heads will shake, fists will be clenched, individual fingers will be raised. (and, I'm sure the drivers will be angry as well)
Trails are buried, tracks are gone. I hate the treadmill.
So, what am I going to do?
I'm going to chill, run very slowly, relax, wave and smile. My heart rate may never rise above 90, but I don't care. There's nothing I can do about it. I want run. My legs probably need a rest, and I need to stave off cabin fever. My friend s and I will exchange "war stories" later in the week.
And, in three weeks I'll be in Myrtle Beach.