Every year when the river freezes they plow a walking path, and zamboni a skating trail, making one of the most epic polar running adventures in the prairies. I'll admit, sometimes the lure of clear asphalt is often more appealing that running in loose beach-sand-like snow, but running on the river is an experience like none other. A foreign perspective of a familiar city, the intense heat of the frozen sun, and the solitude of a traffic-less path make for a run that you can't get anywhere else.
Getting prepared for a winter run is an adventure in itself. I probably spent more time getting dressed and undressed than actually out running. By the time I was ready to hit the snow, I looked like I was ready to rob a bank. Dressed head-to-toe in black gear with every inch covered except for two glossy white eyeballs, I was the true Canadian Ninja that every winter runner in the prairies can relate to.
Running in the winter is a bit of a lesson in modesty. There were no PR's. Trying to navigate gleaming patches of mystery ice, running in snow that meets your mid-shins, and scrambling up and down slippery riverbanks makes for a less than desirable pace. But every moment is totally worth it. Even if your eyelashes are frozen shut.
Winter was going to end soon and the trail would turn in a flowing stream of broken icebergs, melting in the spring equinox. And the truth was, that I wasn't sure that I was ready for this epic polar adventure to end. Like a new bestie that you meet a few days before the end of summer camp, or a summer fling with someone who will return to their regular life when the days get short and turn cold, you know whatever you had will never last but it doesn't make it any easier to accept. The fact was, I was in season changing denial.
For yesterday's run I had planned a 7 miler that took me along roads and paths that lined the river. I had hesitantly come to terms with knowing the river trail was soon-to-be no longer, so maybe it would be easier if I just ran the streets instead. But as I rounded the corner at the end of my block I saw the river flooded with people, like an army of ants marching down the Canadian highway of winter fun. Before I knew it I found myself bumbling down the riverbank in a habitual fashion back to my winter comfort. I was going to run the WHOLE thing. Even if it amounted to more than 7 miles (which it did. 8.5 miles round-trip from my house, to be exact). This was my last kick at the can, my winter victory lap.
Earlier this morning, the news broke. Rivertrail: CLOSED for the season. I suddenly had an unanticipated sinking feeling. Like the kind you get when you realize your summer fling is just another stranger that you used to know, or when you realize that in a few years you won't even remember the name of your new bestie that you met at summer camp. Soon enough I'll be back to running on clear streets, wind in my hair and free of restricting layers of winter armour.
Most people around here will call me crazy. Talk to pretty much anyone and no one is ever disappointed at the idea of an early spring. But when you spend every single Saturday and every single Sunday running on the open road of a frozen river, breaking up is hard to do.
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