How to use this Page

I love running, but what I DON’T love is running in the cold. Truthfully, I don’t harbor ANY fantasies for a white Christmas (or any day for that matter) for the sheer fact that running outside in the snow, in the cold, in the windy, etc. is not cool. Winter is pretty in a snow globe when when you’re a runner actually out there in that flurry…it aint pretty.

When winter comes around, I layer up, and then do all I can to manage the nose situation…
I present my latest Runner’s Strip Cartoon Movie Short: “Cold Weather Running”

I hope you’re packing tissues or hands are as fleet as your runner feet!

——–
Winter Weather Running tips HERE!
More Runner’s Strip Cartoons HERE!
——–

1) Would you rather run in the cold or the heat?
2) How do you stay warm and safe during winter?
3) Do you enjoy your white winters if you live in a state that typically gets them?

By Bill Kirk

Leaving Mollie's, I head across highway 49
And pick up Dover Road for the first two miles.
It’s early morning. The air is still cool;
Not yet thick and heavy with the delta's humidity
Which gets pulled into the air by the heat of the sun.
In this patch of kudzu heaven between Jackson and Yazoo City,

Mostly rolling hills lay before me
As I hug the edge of the asphalt—
My shoes find chance purchase in the loose gravel and sand.

Holding my steady pace,
In just fifteen minutes, I make a left onto Neely Road,
Leaving my open exposure to the morning sun behind me.
I wonder if that’s how long it took Daddy—
And his brothers and his cousins,
When they ran these roads bare-footed 75 years ago?

The road is paved at the turn
But it quickly changes to gravel mixed with powdery Mississippi clay.
Sun flashes unpredictably through the thick canopy,
Dappling the dusty road at my feet.

“Come on Woodrow, keep up,”
I can hear my Daddy call out over his shoulder to his big brother.
“Last one home slops the hogs before supper! Souuuee!”
In unison, quiet foot strikes kick up the road dust into a cloud
Like some kind of shook-up reddish talcum powder.

In wet weather the powdery dust would be Mississippi mud.
But on this day, a fine layer of red clay covers the bare feet and legs
Of half-dozen young farm boys
Out for a good run after a long day in the fields.
Now that’s entertainment!

Someone, it could have been anyone, coughs out between breaths—
“This sure beats pickin’ cotton by a long shot.”
Then it was Daddy, “Yeah, ‘cept when I slung that whip snake
At Woodrow four rows over while we was pickin!’”
That got a good laugh out of everyone, hard as it was to laugh on the run.
“Not a lot of cotton got picked that day!”

Back in the moment,
I feel the first traces of the morning heat on my face—
Sweat streams down my back.
There before me, I can see those boys
As they must have sprinted down
What would one day be the very same road—now Kirk Road.
The thought of running on a road named after my extended family
Tugs the corners of my mouth into a smile.

At the next left the pack would leave Kirk Road and,
With few trees for shade, Fletcher’s Chapel Road
Would take them home, past the very fields they had worked all day.

Imagining the tight group of runners ahead of me.
I pick up my pace. Can I catch them?
My high-tech running shoes seem no match
For the six sets of calloused feet ahead of me.
Those feet know the feel of every inch of these country roads.
I can say I know them, too. But not really—
Not like they do.

The old home place suddenly pops into view.
I may think I can take ‘em. Yet those farm boys have an edge.
They are clearly running for more than bragging rights.
The first one through the gate gets the first slice
Of Mammaw’s chocolate cake after supper.

Less than a quarter mile away from that sweet confection,
I have to make my move.
It’s time to see what kind of a kick they have.

Keeping time with a silent cadence caller,
The boys stretch out their strides—
Their threadbare over-alls flapping in the breeze.
Jockeying for position on the inside, each aims to be the first
To cut the short left corner into the gravel driveway.

Then, in an instant, Daddy swings to the outside—
Farther to run but more room.

In my mind’s eye, I fall in behind him.
For a split second, stride for stride we make for the gate.
In a final burst, Daddy breaks away from the thundering herd,
Slicing through the front gate opening,
Just inches ahead of the pack.

On this night, like many others, to the victor go the spoils:

I, Roger Bannister
By Bill Kirk

May 6, 1954. “Will this be the day?”
Was the singular question for the 3.000 present
At the Iffley Road track that day—
A question for which only I had the anwer.

Three runners toed the line:
Chris Brasher, Chris Chataway and I, Roger Bannister.

It was a day like no other had been or would be again.
In the minds of men, long anticipated expectations
Were held in check by the history of a feat often tried
But never accomplished.

With tension in the air and muscles on the brink of exploding,
The gun went off—then heartbreak
As we were called back to the line.
“How to put the lions back in the cage,” they wondered?
Would our legs recover sufficiently for another go?
We would learn soon enough they would and they did.

Then, in an instant, the world turned on four words,
“Runners take your mark!”
Another shot and the eternity of that first quarter mile
Flashed by in just 57.5 seconds as—
Hearts pounding and lungs near bursting—
I heard myself yell, “Faster”
As I ran impatiently from behind.

An arms length ahead of me,
Brasher’s cooler head prevailed, controlling the race.
Had he not, the price I would pay in three scant minutes would be dear.
The next two quarter miles each exceeded a minute—
“Not by much,” some would say.
But would "not much" be "too much" at the end of the day?

Then Chataway took the lead in the third,
Stride for stride three champions drove on—
Into the last revolution.
Now was when “faster” was needed.
At last it was my turn—my time.

I surged ahead down the back stretch.
“59, 59, 59 seconds,” was my singular thought.
Could it be done? Was this the day?
Rounding the last turn, with 50 yards left,
I raced toward my date with destiny.

Nothing left now but raw will,
I stared at the tape stretched across my path,
Beckoning from a mere 15 feet before me.
Less than three more foot strikes to leave on the track,
A duel with the clock: What razor-thin portion
Of a single second would I gain or lose?

Tick-tick-tick.
The snap of the tape—time frozen with the
Click, click, click of stop-watches,
And the pop, pop, pop of flashing bulbs.

Then unbearable pain and
Total collapse into waiting arms.
Gasping for breath. I strained to hear
The three long-anticipated words: “… three minutes and…”
Everything after was swallowed by the rising din.

I, Roger Bannister, had done it—
With a time of 3:59.4,
The unassailable 4-minute barrier had at last been broken—

The first sub-four mile was mine.

Life Is Good
By Bill Kirk

She wakes early,
Before first light
And slowly makes her way to the kitchen
To start the coffee ritual.
Her footsteps are muffled by thick, woolen socks
Pulled on out of habit—
Even in summer.

The house is quiet
And will be for another hour,
Except for the occasional creak or pop
In floors, ceilings and walls,
Just as old bones are also sometimes wont to do.
It’s odd that those noises always seem to be
Upstairs or in the next room—
Present but never proximate,
As if the house wants the attention—
Letting you know
It should not be taken for granted.

What makes those noises anyway—
In bones and boards?
Are people like houses when they get old?
Come to think of it,
Old ships are like that, too,
What with their snaps and cracks
From movement on the water,
Even when safely sheltered.

She feels that way sometimes—
Just an old girl with ancient ribs and joints
Making noises as all the pieces and parts
Settle and resettle into place.
But not today.

Today the noises don’t matter.
She has no time for feeling old.
For this day, she has fifty miles ahead of her—
On foot; uphill and down,
Over rocky, narrow trails
Carved out through the heavy underbrush
Of ancient forests by pack mules, horses and pioneers.

Today, she will join the company
Of thousands of her comrades,
Both past and present,
Once again, experiencing a level of
Anticipation, pain and exhilaration
Shared by few.

But now in this quiet moment,
Like no other in its simplicity,
She savors the first steamy sips
Of rich, dark coffee laden with
Fresh cream and sugar—
The steady warmth radiating from her core.

Cradling a comfortable old mug in her hands,
She closes her eyes, thankful for this day.
Then, as if in prayer,
She imagines the start of her long day’s journey—
The steady cadence during twelve hours
Of her 80,000 foot strikes,
As she leaves her own transitory yet enduring
Marks on the trail—
The next first steps of the rest of her life.

It’s almost time to lace up.
Life is good.