I woke up on Thursday morning with energy and a motivation that I had not found in months, and it had to do with a simple fact; Thursday morning, at least at the time of this writing, marked our passage into the month of March.
March has always been one of my better running months, because I always feel that I am running into spring with each stride, at least during the early part of the month, which is still part of winter. There is a distinctly different feel to March, I find. First of all, it is actually light outside when I get home, so I don’t have to worry about my affection for darker colors being a possible drawback to my passion for running. Second, the sun actually feels warm on the skin, overriding to an extent the blustering winds that persist, serving only to remind humanity that having cracked skin is a lot like having to sit through the WB Sunday lineup. Third, life returns to the flora and fauna, at least to some degree, so that I am no longer running through a monochromatic parade of dead grass and barren trees. You can see then how anyone could actually welcome the month of march, especially if they are a runner, because life not only returns to your routine, but to your route as well.
I actually started to dig up my shorts and tank tops this weekend as well, and although my parents insisted that this was presumptuous of me and reminded me that the threat of snow and cold lasts well into April in the state of Michigan, I insisted that weather that was actually fit for human recreation was in fact just around the corner and that this was a transition I should make now. Now, as an intrepid runner, you should never be afraid to make the adjustment to a spring wardrobe a little early, otherwise you will find yourself trudging through the warm days of May wearing your spandex, which has turned from warm leggings to the ultimate reducing suit. It was yesterday, then, that I decided to brave the cool temperatures of an early March morning (all 36 degrees) for a short run around the street, thinking maybe that the intrepid runner in me would see this as a logical step toward a more sane climatological outlook, if you will. Well, it was at the very moment that I started that the wind kicked up a little bit, sending the wind chill, at least for a moment, into the teens.
Indeed, that is how it felt to me, as I felt my skin chap to a point where I likely looked about 70 years older than my current age. I ran screaming inside and decided to don my winter gear for another day. The first attempt at a transition to spring failed; no big deal, I suppose. I could always try to achieve that level of chapping again.