This story first appeared in IMPACT Magazine.


December 14, 2008, Calgary, Alberta: I stood in front of the TV looking at the weather report on Channel 10. It alternated between showing an air temperature of minus thirty degrees Celsius and a wind chill of minus forty.

“You’re crazy, you know,” my wife said.

“I’m not crazy. I’m tough.”

“Uh, huh. Have fun, tough guy.”

With those words of encouragement I hit play on my iPod Shuffle and headed out the door. I guess the big “Well, duh!” is that it was friggin’ cold, but I expected that. I also expected that some hard work would warm me up before long.

Within two minutes I regretted the lack of face protection. I’d done some research on the Net about cold-weather running and read testimonies of guys in the far north who liked to do what they called “convergence runs,” where Fahrenheit and Celsius converge at minus forty. One man reported that covering the face wasn’t necessary because the high level of blood flow from hard exertion kept it from freezing. I figured if he could do without a neck tube pulled up to his eyeballs at minus forty, then I could handle it ten degrees warmer.

I determined it would take a few more minutes before I warmed up enough for my face to stop freezing, or for the flesh to start to die, one of those two. If it still hurt by the time I reached the 7-11 down the road I’d go inside and warm up then head back home and hang my head in shame, having completed only two measly kilometres. I chastised myself for not at least bringing a neck tube. I could have shoved it in a pocket and pulled it out if needed. Live and learn.

Another nugget of information I’d found in my Net search was that there was no worry of freezing my lungs. Apparently that’s a myth, one I was going to put to the test. I noticed there wasn’t much burning sensation in my airways thus far, and that’s when I realized that I’d past the 7-11 and my face didn’t hurt anymore. Hopefully it represented good news and not numbness due to cellular expiration.

The next seven kilometres of my ten-kilometre route passed by uneventfully, with the exception of me hurling the odd insult at the occupants of houses who hadn’t shovelled the ten inches of snow off their sidewalks. Plenty of people drove past on my run, and they may have given me strange looks, but I couldn’t really tell because my eyelids were mostly frozen shut.

Then at kilometre number eight something bad happened, something really bad.

There is a certain part of the male anatomy that should never get frostbite, yet I worried it was happening to me.

How could that be? I had three layers covering down there. How could my face not freeze and yet more valuable parts of my anatomy that were covered still be at risk? Perhaps my body was making its own decisions about what parts were more critical and in need of increased blood flow. Stupid body.

I cursed again for not bringing the neck tube. Stuffing that down my pants would have solved the problem.

I ran faster.

That posed another dilemma. Although I had come to believe that the lung-burning myth was indeed false, the increased pace made it feel like I was an asthmatic Darth Vader after taking a dozen bong hits. Things were getting colder down there and I verged on the edge of panic. A week earlier I had seen a documentary about the tragedy on Everest in 1996. A few of the survivors interviewed were obviously missing fingers and probably some toes as well. I started to wonder about what else was missing on those poor guys.

Thinking about missing fingers gave me an idea. I’m left handed, so I looked at my right hand and started thinking, I could live without those fingers. Then I realized that the glove was encrusted in snow and ice; so much for the idea of stuffing a glove down my pants.

About a kilometre left and I was in a state that mental-health professionals refer to as “totally freaked out.” Things were feeling much less than good. I cursed for making the brain-damaged decision to run in such horrific temperatures. I’d done it because I hate treadmills, but no one hates treadmills that much. I also thought it might be an ego boost to accomplish such a feat, but it isn’t much of an accomplishment if you can’t do it and remain intact, especially “down there.” I kicked it into an even higher gear and a minute later stopped to have a coughing fit. I hocked out something that I hoped wasn’t lung tissue and pressed on. A couple of minutes later I burst through the front door of my house.

“How was the run, tough guy?” my wife asked.

“Gotta use the bathroom!” I rushed past her, ignoring her admonishments about not taking my shoes off.

I’ll spare you the details of the next few minutes.

I left the bathroom relieved that things were going to be okay, and my wife said, “You have some snow to clean up.”

At that point my husband training kicked in and I realized that this was one of those “Yes, dear” moments, so I did as bidden. After it was clean I asked my wife if she was proud of me for running ten kilometres in minus thirty.
“Huh? Am I supposed to be?”

Geez. What did it take to impress this woman? Actually, I knew that if I cleaned all the bathrooms in the house she’d be impressed.

All in all, I survived the run with no lasting ill effects. Even my lungs felt fine. I’ll probably do it again, except that next time I’m bringing that damn neck tube.

Just in case.

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