"It's warm outside!" the young lady tells me in the hallway when, on her way back from her run, she sees me outbound.
"But your legs are glowing," I note, observing her flushed-pink thighs.
"No, you'll be fine," she insists again, immediately arousing my suspicions. "You don't even need gloves."
"That's good, since I forgot mine!" I reply. But she's right, mostly. The temperature is in the upper 30's and I pull my sleeves down over my hands. When the parking lot perimeter aims me into the north wind I do get chilly during my first couple of laps. But once I begin to pick up the pace—or perhaps once everything is comfortably numb?—I don't notice the cold. Four roughly 1.5-mile circuits go by at paces of about 9.9, 9.6, 9.0, and 7.8 min/mi. The propane-fueled snow-melter is spewing out dirty water. When I head indoors to change back to work clothes, I see my own flushed-pink thighs.
^z - 2009-12-28