I know it’s winter when the water flow is cut off to the public fountains in Prospect Park; it doesn’t happened all at once, more like mail delivery, sometimes you are at the top of the run, sometimes at the bottom (although mail delivery isn’t want it used to be, in terms of being an EVENT, but you get the point) and Wednesday (Dec. 1) in the middle of a summer-like nor’easter, I see a park worker with a long-handled pipe wrench doing the job to the latest drinking fountain, at the interlocking paving stone entrance to what will eventually be the new ice skating rink, and now, or very shortly, you won’t be able to get a drink outdoors in Prospect Park, and I will know that it is winter.
So why in winter? Why run in winter, when the weather worsens with wind if not wicked snow? It’s dark (like the end of the alphabet). It’s not a question of where. Or when. But why?
In North Bay, Ontario, where I lived for a year in my early thirties, for months in the winter I had to keep my car plugged in to an outdoor electric source so that the engine would turn over in the morning. It was so frigid that many mornings even that didn’t work. Naysayers chimed in when the subject of running came up. Run in deep subzero temperatures and risk lung damage. Only a fool would go out there. The black ice on the ground is so treacherous, no way can you see it coming, and down you go, not able to get your arms out to break your fall, injured and alone. You’ll heat up and not be able to cool down, not unless your clothes “breathe” enough, and if they do, you’ll just be too cold, your sweat will freeze, you’ll catch pneumonia. You’ll get frostbite; your feet; your fingers.
In winter, I think of the Windigo. From the First Nation at home, the Ojibwa. Imagine the north before it was settled, when men and women, as well as animals, struggled to stay alive, particularly during the dark hours of seemingly interminable winter. Here, stories grew of a mythical beast, as large as a tree with a lipless mouth and jagged teeth. When hunters go missing, they are taken by the Windigo, others, often weakened by hunger and cold, can no longer fend off the Windigo and its shadowy power. They become possessed by its spirit, and according to legend, transformed into Windigos, and like vampires, begin feasting on their former loved ones. Eventually, as in all folktales, the people’s will endures, as they live to tell the story. But the Windigos never sleep.
So maybe it has something to do with North Bay, where I heard the story of the Windigo. But come winter in New York City, I can’t imagine not spending a good part of it outside. It’s time for a visit to the Quaker Parrots of Green-Wood Cemetery and the nearby Con Ed substation. The parrots, as I discussed in a previous post (Running for Your Life: Week Eight), live year-round at Green-Wood in the leeward side of the 1861 monumental brownstone arch built by Richard Upjohn, the builder of lower Manhattan’s Trinity Church. That was in September, now in December they’ll be put to the test, these birds from Argentina who’ve been living in the borough far longer than I, far back in the days when I was a young man in Canada, braving winters far brisker than these.
But the wind is stiff, and as we age, the cold seeps in. In truth, it is harder in winter to stir from a warm bed and out onto the road.
A word or two on running in the winter:
Layers, layers, layers. Look elsewhere on the Web for advice on buying the latest in warm weather gear. Me, I’m old school. I arrived in New York City in December 1988, or so I write in my memoir, Tip of the Iceberg, and in my first run around the Central Park reservoir, among the most fellow non-race runners I’ve ever been with in my life, I am the only one wearing shorts.
Wear gloves. (Frostbite, remember?) And a toque. Mine is from the Owen Sound Winter Carnival, circa 1971. It is from the bald spot, guys, from which the most of your heat escapes, so keep it under wraps in a wool hat. Tassel optional.
Yes, naysayers! Beware black ice! Last March, there was daylight when I started a long run, deep in training for the Pittsburgh Marathon in May, but two hours later, dark under scaffolding in Tribeca, I couldn’t see the ice and I suffered a nasty spill, barely getting my hands out to the pavement to keep from really hurting myself.
Beware, too, of treadmill love. A personal trainer friend of mine strongly advises against long-distance training on treadmills because the heel-strikes on them rarely vary. Shin splints won't be far behind. If our bodies are born to run as the barefooters profess, they are born to run on the earth, not on a stationary conveyor belt.
Besides, if there are perfect moments to claim as a road runner, the winter – that means outside, not in an overheated gym – is the charm. Most of mine were in Canada, in North Bay, where in my mind’s eye I see on the horizon a endless line of golden larches, the sun setting in the distance over Lake Nippissing.
Do we get a little softer as we age? Or perhaps this isn’t about the calendar at all. A Canadian nephew writes excitedly on Facebook about his new Xbox Kinect; the young spend countless hours online, or with video games.
My destiny changed forever when I was a few years younger than my nephew is now – and very nearly died from a blood clot condition. If I were not shaped by that experience, then what? I like to think I run because, as I’ve written in this blog, I now value the slow in life. On the road in winter, dusk settling so early on the horizon, I convince myself the Windigo is out there somewhere, waiting.
Next: Running for Your Life: Question Period
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