Snowy winters suit Drohobych, if not my Prague Marathon training. The dirty yellow haze of a sun looked this morning as if painted in abstract. No warmth comes from it, no rays fall on the cold morning floor, the world has become dove grey, yet the snow seems to dance with the otherwise absent light. Each object is blanketed, the sidewalks merely compressed, not cleared, snow. Even the trodden streets look an oddly pleasing shade of cappuccino as if the color was created with purpose, not just an adulteration of the blinding white bordering the roads. I feel comfortable in this world, nestled in the grey. The texture of the snow covering the streets resembles creamed butter and sugar, the first step of home-made cookies, and the vision is just as comforting as the cookies of which I’m reminded. Fresh snow has twirled and spiraled to the ground for a solid four days as if nature had a great blizzard in store for our sleepy town, but decided there was no need to rush.
Although getting myself out the door to run is an endeavor, gratification always accompanies the effort. I have my own personal lane in the field of white barely recognizable as the sports school track. The crisscross pattern worn into the snow by my YakTracks after each run is gently blurred in the continuously falling snow, yet somehow detectable when I return. In a town big enough to grant anonymity, my runs identify me. The same early morning cross-country skiers share the stadium with me, our breath-clouds looking less forlorn for the company. Though gawking, familiar faces accompany my runs, I create for myself a duel world. The daily commuters and I share this time, the worn familiarity, while I simultaneously cut myself off. In for three, out for two – there’s just my breathing, the falling snow, and the opera I play on my ipod.
*Music: “I Can Feel a Hot One” -Manchester Orchestra