I’m trying to acclimate myself to this heat.
May usually has a few warm days to help us dip our toe into the cauldron of summer heat, but this year we have been forced to cannonball straight in. Weather reports keep touting “Real Feel: 103 degrees!” and warning “Avoid being outdoors during peak hours!” Apparently “peak hours” here means any time between sunrise and sunset.
I’m melting. I’ve tried going for early runs, which helps, as the sun isn’t blasting straight overhead yet. But humidity (heat’s evil twin) is already out stalking the trail, looking for victims. I have a house full of teenagers keeping me up late, so I haven’t tried rising at the crack of dawn yet. But it’s on my list.
One day I had a morning full of meetings and appointments which kept me from lacing up until after 11 am. I won’t do that again until late fall or early winter. It was a death march, a dizzy, sweaty slog between shady spots and water fountains. When I went to get a smoothie afterwards (to avoid passing out), the girl at the counter raised her pierced eyebrow at me and said a straight-faced “wow” as she took my soggy money. Later when I saw my face in the rearview mirror of my car, I thought “wow” too. I looked like a roasted beet. And I was, actually—both roasted and beat.
Paige, my running partner and best friend has been MIA. Get this: She recently stepped barefoot on a needle that was sticking straight up out of her daughter’s carpet. The needle jabbed into her big toe, bent, and broke. She thought she pulled it all out, but after our seven mile run around the trail she complained that her toe was still bugging her. By late that afternoon, her toe was red, huge, and swollen. She went to a doctor, who took an x ray, which confirmed the presence of half a needle, deep in the tendon next to the bone. Who runs seven miles pounding on a needle? Paige, that’s who.
One doctor had her come in, gave her a local anesthetic, and attempted to cut open the toe to either pull the needle out or use a magnet to draw it out. No dice. It was too deep. So a week later she was scheduled for actual foot surgery, in an operating room, with an orthopedic surgeon and real anesthesia. That took place this past Wednesday at the crack of dawn. I went with her and got to enjoy a caffeinated morning in the waiting room and the hilarious antics of a typically nutty friend made even more delightfully wacky by meds. She is hobbling around on a boot and can’t get her wrapped foot wet for two to three weeks. Meanwhile she is supposed to be heading to the beach. Ah, life.
So the only thing worse than suffering in the heat is suffering alone. I miss her ongoing banter, cackling, and storytelling. I miss the way she can make seven miles feel like three, because I’m distracted and laughing. I miss the way she always brings joy, bubbles over with it really, whereas I have to conjure mine. I tend to be more serious and introspective when I run alone, and while that serves a valid purpose it can also make three miles feel like seven.
One day this week while I was running alone, I diverted to the park in search of Gilbert, our coach. He’s one of the most joyful people I know. I needed a break from the problems and to-do lists in my head. I found him in a shady spot on the Zilker Park lawn, coaching a curly haired teenager. He shouted, “Kiki, hello! Come here! Where have you been? Where’s Paige?” Then he took a good look at me and he decided I looked the same color as him. I was more roasted beet than African, but it made me laugh.
I started whining about the heat and how it sucks to train alone. He doesn’t do whining so he got out his phone and told me to start dancing.
“What?” I said, grumpily wiping sweat off my face. “Dance? Now? Right here?”
“DANCE!” he said. And you know when your coach says something; your body just does it. So I started to jam out like I was at a festival. But there was no festival, just a weird middle-aged runner, red and sweaty, hopping around to some inaudible tune. I got odd looks from people throwing tennis balls to their dogs, and shaking heads from the city workers who passed by on a golf cart. They probably thought I stepped on a mound of fire ants.
When he told me I could stop, I bent over howling with laughter and out of breath. Suddenly I didn’t notice the heat anymore, and I wasn’t lonely. It worked! The King of Joy helped me find mine again.
So if you get a touch of summer blues, or if you need some way to shake the evil twins heat and humidity—just dance! It will make you laugh, and make you remember why you love to run. It’s the adult version of “going outside to play.”
Don’t forget that.
Kristin Armstrong is a mother, a writer, and a runner. She has written six books, including her latest, A Part of Hearst Digital Media.
