When I was little, we made snow forts at the base of our driveway after the plow would come. There’d be huge piles of packed snow, perfectly positioned just for our amusement. Dressed in way too many layers, my sister and I would burrow our way in, creating little thrones where we’d sit and just relish in our accomplishment, probably staring aimlessly at the neighbor’s yard. We even sculpted cup holders in the arms of our giant Adirondack-like snow chairs, where we’d place soda cans. It was pretty sweet.
That feeling – the one I had when I was sitting in my throne of snow – is the same one that came over me last night as I made my way through our neighborhood, running like a crazy woman in the middle of a snowstorm. It was exhilarating and peaceful all at once. And even though my feet were frozen from the puddles of slush that I mistook for snow, and there were moments when I felt blinded by the storm, and I felt like a little kid again. Nah, strike that, I just felt like me.
Sometimes I lose sight of the simple things that are such a big part of me. Like adventure. Nature. Independence. And pushing the limits. Now I know running in a snowstorm isn’t exactly the craziest thing in the world. But in that one hour, I almost fell several times, almost got hit by a plow, froze my toes, couldn’t see and got a few weird looks from the people who were very reluctantly outside just to walk their dogs. Yet, at the same time, I also was able to run in the middle of the road like I owned it. I gazed at the snow shimmering in the streetlights. And I looked behind me once only to see my own footprints.
Honestly, the only thing missing was a cup holder.
Just getting back from running in a snowstorm.
