Written January 20, 2025
Hello Dear Readers,
Today, Nashville has officially decided to test my limits. It’s the coldest day of the season so far, and yesterday, it even had the nerve to snow—just a little. But instead of sticking around like a proper winter scene, the snow pulled a vanishing act. Gone. No trace. Like it had second thoughts about being here, this left me with an internal debate: No snow means the roads are fine, so I should go run. But the air feels like it was imported straight from the Arctic, so maybe I should… not.
Cue the battle of wills. On one side, the rational me: You’ll feel great once you get going! Running in the cold builds character! Think of the endorphins! On the other side, the devil on my shoulder: It’s freezing. Your couch is warm. You could stay inside and drink something hot like a civilized person. The devil makes a compelling argument.
Nashville’s weather, I’ve realized, operates on its own chaotic logic. We don’t get those long, predictable seasons like in Portland, Oregon, where I used to live. Instead, we get extremes—either melting asphalt in summer or air that bites in winter. My body, thanks to an uncooperative autonomic nervous system, doesn’t adjust well. Before my brain stroke, I used to think my wife had the most finicky internal thermostat—too hot, too cold, too humid, too dry, never just right. Now? I am the reigning champion of temperature intolerance. The gold medalist of feeling the weather too much.
So, I compromised. Instead of heading out first thing in the morning like usual, I postponed my run. Maybe if I waited, the temperature would rise a little. Maybe the sun would be kind and throw me a few degrees of mercy. Spoiler: It won’t. Today is one of those days where the high temperature and the low temperature are essentially the same. In other words, cold now, cold later, cold forever.
Eventually, I’ll have to face the inevitable: bundling up like I’m about to summit Everest and forcing myself out the door. The plan is simple—hit my target pace for the first 5K, and I get to stop early. One hour in the cold, no more. If I don’t hit that pace? Well, then I’m stuck running the full 10K as punishment. My version of self-accountability: run fast or run more.
I know, logically, that once I start moving, the cold will be less of an issue. The first five minutes will be miserable, but then my body will adjust, and I’ll find my rhythm. I always do. The real challenge isn’t the temperature—it’s shutting up the part of my brain that keeps whispering excuses.
So, off I go. Because if I give in to the couch today, what’s stopping me from doing it tomorrow? And the next day? That’s how routines fall apart. That’s how discipline slips. And that’s not happening.
Not today, Devil.