There are a handful of things I’m afraid of all year long – giving blood, centipedes, the monstrosities that will be the new Star Wars trilogy – but at least one of my top trepidations only pops up on a seasonal basis: ice.
Don’t get me wrong: There are plenty of appropriate uses for ice, from ice cream to ice baths to the Mighty Ducks’ epic triumph over Iceland in D2’s climactic result. Without ice, there’d be no polar bears, no bobsledding and nothing to avoid in third world countries, plus rapper Robert Matthew Van Winkle would be just plain vanilla.
But while water in a frozen state may have its place, when it comes to covering my city in a slick layer of danger, it’s simply not welcome. Unfortunately, it’s three days in and it doesn’t seem to be getting the hint.
I imagine nearly everyone isn’t a big fan of ice covering his or her sidewalk, but this petrified New Yorker in particular slows to a crawl as soon as the temperature drops below freezing. Blame my terrible eyesight or my terrible balance or my terrible luck, but if there’s ice within 10 feet of me, history shows I’ll always locate it and always slip on it and always teach the neighborhood children a new string of expletives during my fall from grace/a standing position. You’re welcome, Upper East Side moms.
Strap ice-skates to my feet and I’m still shaking in my (sharp) booties as soon as I step onto the rink. Don’t let this apparent smile fool you. This, my friends, is what you call sheer and utter terror.
During the icy weeks of winter, I’d normally hang up my running shoes and bask in the glory of my unsprained ankles as far from the sidewalks as possible. But with this being the penultimate week of my holiday running streak, throwing in the towel simply isn’t an option. Ice or no ice, the run must go on. The question is how.
Over the weather-filled weekend, I initially tried to run outside, and found my cautious self moving slower than a Terrence Malick film. So I did the unthinkable: I moved my workout inside. If you’ve been reading my blog awhile, you know I hate the treadmill more than I hate 30 Rock at Christmas, but with my ill will toward ice even stronger, the machine somehow won out.
And you know what? It hasn’t been that bad. Sure, I haven’t been logging the mileage I’d like – in fact, I’ve yet to run more than 2.2 miles in one session since I’ve been forced indoors – but at least I’m maintaining my streak this frigid week without the neck brace to prove it.
It may not look like much, but this, dear friends, is visual proof that in the battle of man vs. ice, man has won. And that’s something worth celebrating with an
ice-cold lukewarm beer.
How do you maintain fitness when the weather outside is frightful?