This weekend we had an early-season snow storm. On Saturday morning, we awoke to four inches of snow on the ground. Today, Sunday, there were six more inches.
Since I've lived in Scotland, snow has been pretty rare. We've had years where we really only had a dusting once or twice in the whole winter. Last year was the first time in 12 years that we had a proper accumulation - we had snow on the ground for almost a month starting the week before Christmas.
So, snow is a bit of a novelty here, and my children love to go sledding in our back garden (yard).
As mentioned in my last post, on Sundays I often meet up with some friends at a local woodland park for a morning run. It's particularly fun when there's snow on the ground, so I was off at 9:40 this morning to meet them. The snow slowed my run up to the park, and I missed my fellow runners, but was able to follow their tracks. Eventually I caught up, and enjoyed a good run through nearly a foot of snow on the trails. It would have been a great morning for cross-country skiing.
The snow intensified as we ran, and when I returned, there was a harsh wind. My face was numb, and my hands were cold (my gloves, by the end of the run, were wet). Several cars were having difficulty getting traction on the un-plowed roads.
I arrived back at the house after this 12-mile run 2:07 after I'd set out. My legs were beat after slipping through the snow for two hours.
I've been reading 26 Miles to Boston by Michael Connelly. He walks through the race mile by mile, and now that I'll be actually doing it, I'm finding the description of the Newton Hills much more anxiety provoking. The fact that they come so late in the race - near mile 21 - is a sobering thought.