25 degrees / light snow
100% snow-covered, slick ice
This morning it snowed. An inch in an hour. Then it stopped. By the time I got out to the river, it was snowing again. I decided not to wear my yaktrax, which was a bad idea. Very slippery. Lots of ice hidden under the snow. I slipped a few times, but never fell.
a few tips to avoid slipping
It was difficult for me to see where it was icy, but within a few miles I had developed a system that mostly worked.
First, look for the footsteps that stretch, the ones that seem longer than a foot. That is where someone has slipped or slid from ice underneath. Try to avoid these spots.
Second, accept that every single crosswalk entrance will be slippery and that you need to slow down in those spots. Slow down by shortening your stride and lifting your feet more often but with less height. Do a shuffle. Or, slow down to a walk. Keep your foot flat as you step down.
Third, stay focused, constantly reminding yourself the ice is lurking everywhere. Do not look away or try to pick up your pace.
I liked this run and am glad that I did it, although I wondered what I had gotten myself into when I was on the east side of the river, too far in to turn around.
Crossing the Franklin Bridge, the snow just starting again, I noticed the river was brown and open and that the faintest fog, due to the light snow, was hovering above the surface. Later when I was crossing under the lake street bridge on the east side, I noticed 2 people standing at a railing, looking out at the river. I walked up the steps and stopped halfway to stand at another railing and admire the grayish-brown water. This view, a reward for the effort of trudging through the snow for 50+ minutes.
- on the bridge, closest to the railing, there were squares of bare pavement. As my feet landed on snow then bare pavement then snow again, I could feel the difference — a slight slide, then a thud, then a slide again
- voices yelling from down below in the gorge — people having fun in the snow?
- a quiet voice grunting or clearing their throat, gently alerting me to their presence before biking by
- cars moving very slowly, carefully
- a truck on the bridge starting to stop way back from the cars in front of it. Must be slippery on the road
- chick a dee dee dee
- headlights down at the bottom of the franklin hill — a car slowly climbing up
- an adult pulling a young kid in a sled on the path
- 2 walkers having an animated conversation as we all approached meeker island. I heard one of them talking as I passed. Now I can’t remember what he said, just that he said it strangely
- the pipe under the lake street bridge — the one that I recorded gushing the last time I ran the franklin loop — was frozen solid. One thick, ugly icicle hanging at the bottom
Another Pastan poem:
The Death of the Self/ Linda Pastan
Like discarded pages
from the book
of autumn, the leaves
come trembling down
in red and umber,
each a poem
an unread letter.
Think of the fires
in ancient Alexandria,
the voluminous smoke
of parchment burning.
Open your arms
to the dying colors,
to the fragile
Deep in the heart
of buried acorns,
Nothing lost. I like imaging my past selves — not past lives, but the many selves I’ve been throughout my life — as not lost. Buried acorns to become, over time and slow, steady growth, a new forest of trees. Now I’m imagining a forest of Saras. I’d like to walk through that forest! This makes me think of something I’ve been noticing about Pastan — she loves trees. She wants to be a tree, she links trees with the act of writing poetry, she finds hope against the inevitability of death in trees. A forest of Saras also makes me think of a poem I started a few years ago about a lake of Saras, different ages, lining up to make a bridge. It also makes me think of something funny I did last night. I positioned 2 of the mirrored doors of our bathroom medicine cabinet in such a way that I could look into the small wedge between each mirror and see around 20 of me. I stuck out my tongue and all these Saras were sticking their tongues out too. So many Saras. I kept looking to see if one of them might decide not to stick out their tongue. Nope, at least not that night.