Berit, eat my shorts

Pandemonium. News headlines about how the end of the world is nigh. The rain whipping our windows mercilessly. A cow flying past outside. A two-glasses-of-wine hangover (yes, I'm lightweight). None of that was enough to stop J and me from going for a run. Berit, as this particular storm is called, lovingly yet inexplicably sporting a female name, was not enough to stop us.

The fact that I had just hung both my jackets AND both my winter tights to dry after washing them almost was enough. Almost. I put on some warm training trousers, a long sleeved functional top and a vest. I looked like my picture should be in the dictionary, under the definition for ”jogger”.

True to my appearance, I started off easy, while J was warming up. In the woods, the wind didn't seem so dangerous; in fact, we could hardly feel it. Except by the lake, where the sparsity of trees meant I was suddenly hit by such a gale force wind, I was almost thrown into the bushes.

I took a detour on the way home to make my round a bit longer, and let my feet pick up speed. I ran at a controlled, yet fast pace. So, what if it was downhill? It still counts. But then I was met with a wall. With no trees around to protect me, I was struck by a headwind so strong that my eyes watered. My leg muscles were working hard to move me forward, but I wasn't getting anywhere. Luckily those sudden bursts of wind usually stop seconds after they hit you, and I was able to run the last few hundred metres without incident, bringing the week total to a nice, even 60 km. Satisfied.