The snow is coming frequently enough that it no longer melts away completely before the next storm rolls through. It’s getting quieter, and colder, not necessarily in lows but in the absence of highs, the persistence of the night’s chill. My neighbor the fox prances outside my window in a full and lustrous coat.
I can understand his glee. I like running in fresh snow more than any other weather. Stillness, muffled steps, your sense of urgency slipping away in tandem with the meandering paths of heavy flakes floating groundward. It’s been a good week for it.
Last Sunday’s Blue Sky Trail Marathon wasn’t like that at all, though it was beautiful, the course winding up the northernmost foothills of the Front Range and then down into a valley where the great plains had rolled up over a ridge and across to the base of those rocky upthrusts. From this sheltered position the arid and prickly prairie had managed to retain some of its former majesty. I suffered thoroughly for 7th in 3:40, happy with my restraint if not my fitness.