This could be a picture of my legs in the cool, refreshing river on a sweltering hot day here in Northern California. I could be sitting there with a drink in one hand and a novel in the other, relaxing and soaking up the sun. It could be, and I could be, but it isn't. These are actually my legs in the freezing cold river, at 8:40 on a 55 degree, overcast morning. What inspired this apparent lapse in judgment on my part? My first ever 8 mile run, the last mile of which I hobbled as my IT band loudly protested. Feeling like the half mile home to my ice bath was further than I wanted to go, I instead sat myself down in the shallows of the river and wished I had a sweatshirt as the breeze cooled my sweat and the chill of the river crept up my tank top. I sat there for ten minutes before calling Hubby to come get me, and ten minutes later he arrived with two towels, a Gatorade, my flip flops, and his assurance that despite the fact that I had to walk most of that last mile, I am, in fact, a runner. Because no one but a runner would be crazy enough to sit in a river as cold as ours has been as the runoff from the late season snow comes down from the Sierras.
He then walked me back to the car and brought me home, where I changed to dry pajama pants and a sweatshirt while he cooked me some eggs and bacon. Sounds like a catch, doesn't he? He is. Here is what I found on the mirror before I left for the 8 miles of
torture running this morning:
Yeah, I'm pretty lucky ;)