There was a slight contrast between my Monday and my Tuesday. And also a connection.
Monday I went for a solo ten-mile run in Bear Mountain State Park.
The heavy snow from the previous week had melted over a couple warm and rainy days and was still draining down from the heights when a wicked cold front swept through a day or two before I got there. All the snowmelt had frozen solid, icing up a lot of trail sections with treacherous formations. I could edge around most patches and only went down a few times. And when I did, I was ready for it. Sort of.
The weather was windy and bitter but I had the right gear and stayed comfortable, though changing conditions between hills and hollows called for constant wardrobe adjustment. My water bottles froze up, my balaclava got icy over my mouth, and I could have done with more food, but I never thirsted much or bonked.
The sky started off cloudless and bright, but the whole time tiny flurries sprinkled down in a way that seemed almost witchy. Where were they coming from?
By the end of the run, gray clouds had drifted in and the sunlight was gone. But the excitements from my romp burned bright.
Tuesday it was back to the grind in Gotham. In extreme cold (and extreme mild, too) the subway always erupts with delays from signal and track trouble. Finding a spot on the jammed platform was about as difficult as picking my way across an icy slant. But the exhilaration from my run was still with me, helping me keep my balance in this savage setting even though the challenges in the hills were far away.