It’s been one eye on the Met Office and the other on my Janathon ‘plan’ this week. On the proviso that the threatened snow wasn’t going to set in until Friday morning, I opted for a longish after-work pootle this evening and an early one for Friday morning.
Judging by some of the overheard conversations in our office, you would have thought that there is some kind of terrible apocalypse on the horizon rather than a brief flurry of the white stuff, but there we go. It had started as I set off from work and I used the drive home to consider my running kit of choice for the evening. I spotted four runners, two in long long tights and two in shorts. I decided to compromise on my knee-length tights (this was not the time to dust off my only-worn-once-in-Kent-where-I-am-a-stranger shorts), but also knew that unless I applied JogBlog’s 3G technique, I would never leave the sofa. Despite a brief threat of faffage, I was out of the door by six (with the grim realisation that I would be doing it all over again in twelve hours).
I left the house with a strange spring in my step. The strange strange spring wore off after about a mile, I started to question my sanity and I ditched the plan of a long out and back. The falling snow was small and pointy as I started, but became fatter and more feathery around the two mile mark. I started to feel ok again and fell for the old chestnut of “ooh it’s not that windy” while the wind was behind me. This lasted until I turned around, started running into the wind and learned that even fat, feathery snow is bloody painful when it gets in your eye. Being lulled into a false sense of security put me three miles away from home, making a nice loop of six miles.