Sometimes when I talk to non-runners, I feel like I have to defend the act of running. I'm often met with people commenting on how they could never run x miles, or how boring they find running, or how crazy it seems to run x times a week. And mostly I don't care. It's not my job to defend running. The truth is most people can run x miles, and the fact that they don't want to or don't like to does not really interest me. Everyone has his thing, and running just happens to be one of mine. Whatever.
And yet, every so often, I have to defend the act of running to myself. Portland is currently 27 degrees with gusts up to 41 mph (bringing it down to 11 degrees with wind chill, or 4 degrees, depending on which website you trust). I was only out for an hour, but I immediately lost feeling in fingers and toes, and my face is so chapped it burns. My knees hurt because I couldn't (didn't?) warm up properly beforehand. And even tucked under a beanie, my ears were frosted and throbbing deep down to their itty bitty hairs.
I had to consciously remind myself that it's not running that I hate. It's wind. Stupid, stupid wind. Because even through the misery of being blown to and fro, I still love running. It's just my thing.
But wind? Wind is dumb.
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