Running in the Snow

When we returned from our trip to the Biltmore House on Wednesday, we knew that snow had been predicted for the afternoon.  The words "significant accumulations" were even used by some meteorologists, which is a very exciting phrase.  I drove back up to Town late in the afternoon, perhaps 4:00 p.m., intending to get in a three-mile run to loosen up legs that had been too long in the car.  The sky was that shade of gray unique to a snowstorm coming, but it was not precipitating at all, and in fact I nearly left my hat in the car.  But by the time I had run one-half mile, snow was all around, first in a flurry, then a brilliant swirl all around me, and finally driving almost horizontally into my face.  In no time, my vest was white, and the roads that had been dry were covered with a half-inch of snow and starting to be treacherous.  I cut my run short at two miles, and was glad I did:  the drive home was very dicey, and took me perhaps three times as long as usual, to the extent that my patient wife and my neighbor Dori were exchanging worried text messages about me.

But what an awesome experience it is to run in a world at the very beginning of that magical transformation of which I never grow weary:  the snow clinging to everything, the line of traffic creeping slowly and gingerly down the Walhalla Road on the way home.  Glad to have run, glad to have come home to a warm house.