March is my month. Unpredictable and messy, full of madness and hope. Gradually, at unpredictable points, runners start to come out. Some have been running outdoors in elaborate layers all winter long, some have been treadmilling, some have been skiing or spinning, most have been doing whatever mix helps them pull through.

At the Irish 8K in St. Paul, the start area is always a grumbling chorus of “I’m so out of shape.” In no time, we’ll find the “out of shape” is all relative. The team circuit racers are superstars comparing themselves to super-superstars and nowhere near out of shape, though we all imagine ourselves the only exception. We really ought to knock it off, this business of complaining about how woefully undertrained we are while leaving plenty of runners in the slush, but it’s tradition.

I hate to break tradition, so I signed up for the 8k last-minute on Wednesday, after the forecast showed the wintry-mix storm would likely hold off, without giving much thought to the fact that I’ve done almost no outdoor running in the past three months. I used to train year round, but now two days shy of my 40-what birthday (48, shhh) and starting my 14th year of running, my body doesn’t absorb the amount of training I did at my sub-20 5K peak. Goal #1 is staying strong and able to run these great races for years to come. (I will write MUCH more on this subject in future posts.)

I headed to Run N Fun St. Paul Thursday night to pick up my shirt and bib. For the first time, I did miss O’Gara’s a little bit; that had provided a bit closer spot for pickup. Then Barb reminded me that because there was no O’Gara’s, there would be no beer. I wouldn’t really miss the beer, and it’s not really the best recovery beverage, but darn, that was a free beverage. Barb cheered me immediately by giving me the shirt – a nice black long-sleeve this year – and telling me the discounts in the clearance room had been increased to 50% off everything.

While browsing clearance, I saw my awesome teammate Amy, and Steve of Steve-In-A-Speedo blog fame. They discussed the weather without much concern. Amy planned extra miles on Saturday and Steve planned a fun race report. I always feel I’m the only one who frets about these things. The sale clothing was a welcome distraction. Wool shirts, do we still need them? No, I optimistically bought sweat-wicking briefs instead. Steve found a fabulously bold pair of shoes.

Early to bed that night, I slept well, much better than I usually do on a pre-race night, but woke on race morning to familiar tummy rumbling. I took deep breaths. I have tummy issues.* I started eating better in the fall, and starting in December I zoned in on mental health, stress management and mindfulness to strengthen the mind-body connection. When I started hard workouts again in January, I noticed improvements in focus. I was slower, but trusted my rate of perceived effort, and the workouts progressed without strain. I still had my doubts about racing. Last fall, the normal race-day jitters escalated to near-panic, for reasons I didn’t understand at the time. Is three months of therapy enough? Deep breaths, deep breaths, and more deep breaths as I drove to St. Paul. Many deep breaths as I jogged to the start.

Suddenly I thought, this is going to be awesome. I started seeing other runners. Awesome runners! On an awesome day! The wind was brisk, but it was going to be at our backs after the turnaround. Luck of the Irish! On my way through the Whole Foods parking lot, where our bag drop tent would be, I saw my neighbor Evan, and we had some laughs about this glamorous sport that lets us store our belongings alongside parking lots. We love it.

The formidable Mill City Running team came out in force. This team is growing impressively. They have tons of spirit.

Not sure where to line up at the start, I positioned myself well behind Kara, who is fastest in my age group by far. That didn’t work out very well. I suspect she also started farther back than she had to, and is better at jockeying for position in the first half mile. My start-out pace, after the dicey start with the steep short hill and slushy turns, was 7:47 – oops, time to pick it up. I passed people cautiously, reminding those I recognized that it was going to feel much easier after the turnaround. The Miles to Marathon team were out cheering, and coach Ron spotted me with a “Hey, great to see you running!” We started to see the faster runners coming back, looking splendid. By this point the high had kicked in, and I shouted encouragement – “Go Dan! … Way to go Melissa! … Go Sonya!” until I realized I was using considerable energy shouting. After the turnaround I turned it up a notch and turned in a 7:08 mile – Yeah! Though I don’t think that’s faster than I ran the whole darn thing last year.

Still, I’ll count this as a success. I got what I wanted – a fresh start and a chance to run free and joyful again. The best part of all was the long cool-down with teammates. I had a chance to chat with our wonderfully understanding and motivating Queen Sonya, Awesome Amy turned in another 11 miles (!), and Joelle and I got in a cool-down that was longer than the race itself, so for me this counts as a long run day also.

*Note on tummy issues: Because this is an athlete’s blog, I am allowed to talk about bodily functions, if not outright obliged and expected to do so. Daily exertion brings the natural facts of life to the forefront. Okay? So I was all set to regale you with a story of multiple panicky trips to the bathroom that would cause me to nearly miss the start (which has happened in the past). But it didn’t happen today. Also new, I didn’t feel sick at the finish, and though I’d had a beet shot, I didn’t have beeturia (pink pee from beets). I’m going to take that as a good sign. And I promise, if I ever get the beeturia again, I won’t take a picture of it.

All sorts of good signs today! Hopefully more signs of spring, hope and renewal are on their way. The next possible race is a super bargain – the free-to-members Lake Johanna 4 mile, which I am also going to leave to a last-minute decision. Stay tuned! And thanks to all who were part of today’s positive energy!

Update, Already: The results are in, and show me with a blistering time of 36:26, a 7:20 pace overall. I’m going to try not to think about the days when I could run 7-minute miles for a half-marathon. Incredibly, this gets me second in my age group. The aforementioned Kara beat me by about 5 1/2 minutes, same margin as last year’s Victory 10K. We’ll keep our eye on her – if she continues at this rate, she’ll be smashing more records this year.

Most of us Minnesotans welcome the first layer of snow, unless it comes early. Skiers have been praying for it, or so they say, even if they’re not religious. The rest of us look forward to the change in scenery. When the leaves fall and all dormant plant life turns a depressing brownish-gray, the coat of sparkling white paints the landscape new, and keeps the sky bright a bit longer when the sun sets too soon in the city.

No matter how soon the first snow does come, the old-timers remember a year when it came earlier. When it was heavier. When it blew sideways. When you had to shovel a path out your door. You had to walk. How many miles? They debate over that. It’s a special tradition, without too much of a moral to the storytelling; except the important reminder that it could always be worse. The Old Man Patrol will continue to walk the streets on the snowy days, to ask the young ones, “where’s your hat?”

One thing we can say about this winter, we will remember it when we’re old. I can tell my nephew I had to walk a mile to work when the windchill was over 30 below. In fact, I didn’t have to, I was just dumb and didn’t want to wait for the train, and I didn’t think it was a big deal because a lot of people went out in all conditions. I had all these crazy runner friends who were training for the spring marathons in all conditions, bundled up in layers of activewear, with only parts of their faces peeking out. After ten plus miles of that nonsense, the tradition was to take a selfie with snow crusted on their eyelashes and write a post about how great they felt. Only the treadmill, the dread mill, the dead mill, could break a marathoner’s spirit.

We’re not broken, but we’re tired. Those who were praying for it in December can stop now, really. I think they have stopped. Even the most cheerful snow-lovers are worried. We simply don’t have room for any more of the stuff.

Just when you think you can’t bear another day of cold seeping into your tired bones, snow upon snow, banks over your head, icicles growing into prison bars, a thaw comes. spreading relief oddly like a fever breaking. You go out into puddles. your boots will get wet. You’ll live with the mess; at least you’re alive again. Teams of silly college boys come out to dodge puddles in basketball shorts. Flocks of finches turn shrubs into clouds of noise that pause at once as you walk by, then rouse again after you pass. They have their plan if the thaw continues another day. The litter of a season resurfaces from the melting snowbanks; wrappers of all colors race in the gutters.

And the runners come out to race. I’m not registered for anything, since I always wait until the forecast is clear to decide. So far, it looks okay for next weekend’s 8k, the first in the 2019 USATF MN team circuit races.

At the Irish 8K in St. Paul, the start area is always a grumbling chorus of “I’m so out of shape.” In no time, we’ll find the “out of shape” is all relative, and that most of the team circuit racers never let themselves get all that out of shape, though we all imagine ourselves the only exception. We really ought to knock it off, this business of complaining about how woefully undertrained we are while leaving plenty of runners in the slush, but it’s tradition. And what we’re really saying is that it’s just the beginning.

March is my month, unpredictable and messy. In a week the clocks turn an hour forward, we start looking to spring, and I turn 40-what years old. That’s just the beginning too.

Let’s go.