I left DC and the record snow storm for Massachusetts before 7 on Monday morning. I made fine time and ran into little traffic along the way. When I arrived on Cape Cod at 3 that afternoon, it was clear that the storm had just left. Snow still blanketed the trees and roads were in need of a secondary plow. I was essentially following the storm’s wake up the I-95 corridor. At 3:30, I shoved a piece of roast beef sub down my throat and drank some water, then waited. By the time I shuffled out of the house at 5, the neighborhood was dark and empty. I live at the end of a mile long road that basically ends at a quiet, desolate beach. Even in the summer, it is very quiet. Most of the small cottages that surround us are deserted this time of year. I clicked on my headlamp and ran past dimly lit homes. Black ice stretched evil-like in the dark road beyond the reaches of street lights. The going was rough, but I found patches of powder that proved great footing. I proceeded towards the beach. It was cold - lower 20s. The wind was howling and the waves were frozen in place. It is amazing what cold weather does to the water’s edge; that point where ocean meets land. There was no sound. Even the ocean appeared asleep. The snow made it possible to see so I followed the edge of the frozen beach down back to our house, about a half mile away. Ahead of me was a saltwater stream that emptied water from the marsh to my right into the ocean on my left. I stepped on what I thought was ankle deep snow, but quickly found myself waist deep in a drift. My right foot splashed into the frozen ocean. I immediately crawled out and threw myself over the stream, huffing and puffing as I went. My foot was soaked to the bone so I did my best to keep the pace hot while running the last stretch of awkward beach. After a couple of minutes, I found my way back to the cut in the snow fence which snaked its way through sand dunes back to the road and eventually my house. Only the path was nowhere to be seen and the wind had made its own snow-dune drifts. Once I got to my house, I glanced at the watch – 12:30. Sigh. I wasn’t getting anywhere quick.
I ran the mile up to the main road and contemplated making a dash either via sidewalk or street to get to one of the neighborhood roads. I had basically run all I could on my road. The sidewalks were covered with 3-4 feet of plowed snow. There was no way I was going to get 10’ let alone the ¼ mile needed until I reached a parallel road. I looked down the main drag and saw sporadic cars snaking their way home from work and/or shopping. I looked at my all-black attire and the single light on my head. I knew that venturing out on that main drag would be suicide. I’d have a better chance going over the top at the Somme than I would trying to run along a non-existent shoulder, in the dark, wearing dark on the day after a record snow storm. So, I turned and went back home…then turned again and ran back to the road. I ran back to the beach, shook my head “no, not this time”, and backtracked again. Back and forth, forth and back.
I got in 7. A new record for miles run on my one mile road. As it turns out this is as far as I usually run on Monday evenings.
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