As mentioned previously, I do a spot of running throughout the week as part of a losing battle against the impending spread of middle-ageÃƒÂ¯Ã‚Â¿Ã‚Â½odd that I’m saying that, as I haven’t fully recovered from my adolescence yet and already my body is about to unleash an entirely new kind of trauma on me. Anyway.
After a cold and foggy day yesterday, I pretty much expected the cold that percolated through the window of my room this morning. Nonetheless, I hauled myself out of bed, as there were calories to burn (and burn and burn), and put on my usual running cosi of shorts and a polo top. Canberra is criss-crossed with numerous tracks and bike paths, as well as wide and sparsely populated roads, usually ensuring a decent variety in the choice of running track, should variety be something one craves. As such I have a variety of tracks I follow, but the one I usually favour takes me up to the headwaters of Lake Burley-Griffin, and back again, in a round trip of forty-five minutes, or if I’m doing particularly well, three quarters of an hour.
I am one of those people who tend to be impartial about running, in that I don’t hate it, but I don’t love it either. I’m a fussy runner. I hate running when there is direct sunlight for example—largely because I tend to overheat when I run, and particularly at the end of ten kilometres, having a hot sun beating down on you is just that little bit too much extra stress, at which point I tend to get a case of the fuckity-fucks, ready to lash out anyone and anything that so much as looks at me funny.
Hence I prefer to run in the early morning, before the sun has risen, or if that’s too early, before the heat of the sun has too much strength. The price I pay, especially here in Canberra, is that I have to endure the bitter cold of the early morning. This isn’t too bad usually, as given my tendency to overheat; the cold does actually help in regulating my body temperatureÃƒÂ¯Ã‚Â¿Ã‚Â½to a degree, but this morning, it almost became too much.
Usually the cold will simply make breathing a little uncomfortable, as the cold air splinters the lungs and causes one’s breath to rasp both as it comes in, and as it goes out. This morning, as I ran further and further, and my body heated up, the trifecta of overly warm body parts, sweat seeping from the pores of my skin, and the cold air I was running through, all combined to cause substantial —shrinkage—, which any male who has spent time in cold air is bound to have experienced.
This morning it was particularly vicious, to such an extent that the man berries were packed so tightly against my groin, it felt like they were trying to climb into places they just shouldn’t ever go. Every stride put pressure on my nether regions; the sort that kind of equates to having them whacked with a rubber mallet. By the time I reached the final hill climb to home, I was certain they’d have been transformed into Frisbees, and that had I had the breath to speak, my voice would be as high as a soprano sings.
It wasn’t until I’d spent ten minutes under near scalding hot water, that any circulation returned, they actually crawled out from where they’d been hiding, and I felt whole again.
Now, that was worth the time to read, wasn’t it?