Ahead of the storm

Anticipation kept me awake. 

I switch off the alarm before it rings, and while I’m a little annoyed that planning a run before work tends to inhibit my sleep, I accept the late-night soundtrack outside my window — gusting winds and a Long Horned Owl —  as welcome compensation. 

I avoid looking out that window first thing, convincing myself I want to be surprised by any snow that may have fallen earlier than previously predicted. 

A millisecond before my feet connect with the floor, I feel the skin around my face tighten into a wince. 

It’s preemptive. I know the floors are cold enough to send stabbing pain into my soles. I expect it.

As I hobble around it will loosen. By the time I have pulled in the clothes I set out the night before I hope to be gliding around as smooth as silk.

Hope is still in play. 

The wildcard has yet to be played. My left foot - the inner arch to be specific - has been trying to tell me something.

I am holding out hope that it’s all a grand bluff. 

Truth be told I’ve been on guard that the grumbly appendage is engaging in stealth negotiations with a little point near the edge of my back that is intermittently threatening rebellion.

It’s not that I’m ignoring my frenemies, it’s just that they become quiet enough after takeoff that I tell myself it’s ok to postpone our come-to-Jesus moment until we land in three to seven miles.

I will go slow. I'm hedging my bets that it’s not an injury in the making as much as it is a quirk of advancing age to be managed. 

Just being out here in the dark and cold feels like an accomplishment. Getting out of bed before dawn, wrapping myself in layers and safety lights so that passing motorists are not left unaware.

The snow has been falling. It softens the noise of the world. Enough that its dangers can take you by surprise. It soaks up the sound of cars and trucks that may or may not be compensating for the ice that after days of fluctuating temperatures has a solid base, 

Nevertheless, the challenge is part of the plan. 

It feels good to be prepared. For an instant, after I leave the house, I stand on the porch absorbing the cold as a welcome recalibration. I had been bundled up inside long enough to have courted overheating, 

I even carry a flashlight for extra precaution, alternately swinging it by my side as if directing planes down a runway, and shining it on the roadway ahead to troubleshoot potential trouble spots. 

No one wants to be surprised by potholes or camouflaged ice. I know to stick to the roadways as they are more evenly seasoned. When the spring comes I know

to make noise; I don’t want to surprise any critters newly awakening from their winter slumbers.

Dawn greets me midway home. I am wide awake and grateful that I have managed to avoid the worst of the weather.