Cold Turkey

The half marathon is one week away, a journey that I almost didn’t take because of my slightly irrational fear of frigid air.  

When I was a kid, I played soccer outside, huffing in the cold air until my mom took me to the doctor who diagnosed me with mild “cold-induced asthma.”   He prescribed a “puffer” which I was to use in case I had trouble breathing during my soccer games.  I probably used it twice during my entire childhood. But cold-induced anxiety was firmly implanted in my psyche.  As a result, my window of acceptable temperatures in which to be active outdoors ranged from about 62 to 72 degrees.  Obviously, this put a crimp in my running career ten months of the year.  

But this year on Columbus Day, in a last-ditch effort to fit back into my pre-pregnancy jeans, I decided to train for a half marathon. (I’m still not in those jeans, but that is the subject for another blog post.)  I signed up for a race in Miami in January, thinking only of the one 13.1 mile jaunt along the Florida coast, and not the dozens of runs in less-temperate Connecticut.  Ouch!  However, having made this commitment to myself (and announced it on Facebook), I would have to figure a way out of my cold conundrum.

The treadmill was not the answer.  If cold was my nemesis, the treadmill was its henchman: slightly less scary, yet  relentless and mindless.  Yes, there are times when the treadmill is unavoidable: heavy rains, early morning or late night runs.   Jeff thinks that running on a treadmill is easy because you can watch movies.  (Jeff has never, mind you, set foot on a treadmill).  But staring at a bobbling screen makes me dizzy.  No, if I was going to run this half-marathon, the bulk of my training would have to be outdoors.  

Before each run, I would click on the little yellow sun icon on my iPhone (eternal temperature: a glorious 73!)   At first, I would only run if that number was above 60 degrees.  I would literally sit around my house in my running clothes, waiting for the temperature to hit 60 before I hit the streets.  But over the weeks, the temperature would drop a few degrees and so would the bottom of my running range.  55 then 43 then 40.  At the end of each of these runs, I felt doubly accomplished: one, I had finished a run that was bringing me closer to a long-standing goal.  Two, I had finished the run without dying.  To the contrary, I usually felt pretty great.

In early December, I was scheduled for an 8-mile run.  The forecast called for a high of 40 degrees.  I always planned my long weekend runs for the point in the day that would be the warmest, usually between 1:00 and 3:00 pm.   However, my parents were flying in from Florida to spend Chanukah with us and I didn’t want to leave in the middle of the day.   At 8 am, my iPhone showed a mere 31 degrees.  One degree below freezing.  Now I was really being tested.  Eight miles of hamster-style torture versus a profound fear of wheezing myself into the ground.  I reasoned that I had never actually had an asthma attack since I started running, and that if I needed it, my inhaler would be safely zipped in the pocket of my wicking jacket.  I decided to brave the cold.   By the end of mile one, I was completely warmed up, both in body temperature and in morale.  I knew I would be okay.

I still have lots of fears: snakes, throwing up, not making enough food for a party I am hosting.  I haven’t come close to conquering any of them.  My fear of the cold, however, has thawed.