Every President’s Day weekend, my husband, kids and I trek up to Vermont. I don’t ski. I don’t snowboard either – (I quit when my binding broke). But I do run. And it only took a few years to convince me.
It makes sense. We travel with my husband’s college friends, most teammates from his college cross country days. It’s a house full of athletes… and small children.
During the weekend, we gear up, team up, and go. Who wouldn’t want to run? Well, last year we all wanted to..
Last year it was such a milder winter. Running outside made you feel like you were in a snowglobe. We spent a serene afternoon reminiscing as the snow crunched under our feet. If you saw us you would have thought it was the perfect scene for a feel good movie.
This year… it was no snowglobe. There was cursing during that subzero run. A lot of cursing. The winter had been relentless and still was. Our faces were frozen, our eylashes covered in snowflakes. We had broken into two groups – short runs and longer ones. And both of us ended early. It was no walk in the park, more of a tale of survival.
This year (and like the year before that), at the end of the day, we came back together: all the athletes, all the small children. We were ready to relive our day (and days past). The fire was burning. Our traditional weekend meal was just about to come out of the oven. The 100 Mile Meal. What could be more fitting?