All temperatures are in Celsius, and distances are in kilometres because I’m Canadian, dammit. Confused Americans can go here.
If I’m not more careful, I may end up finding out what it’s like to have camel toe.
"That's where mah babies come from."
The first story I ever had published was about running in cold weather, and you would think I’d have learned my lesson.
I did not.
Granted, in that story the temperature was -30 ambient and -40 windchill. At the time I was wearing tights and a thin pair of track pants over top. Since then I received for Christmas from my lovely wife, who I believe would like my nethers to remain intact, a pair of lululemon pants specifically designed for running in cold weather.
I really like these pants for lazing about the house in winter because they’re nice and warm, but I have mistakenly worn them to the gym for lifting weights and seriously overheated. Yes, they are great for running in extreme cold, but I only wear them if it’s brutally frigid because they aren’t tight-fitting like, well, like a pair of tights are. They hang loose and flop around and I guess I feel less aerodynamic or something. In short, I only where them for running when I feel like I really need them. Usually when it gets to about -20.
So, a couple of weeks ago we were experiencing a bit of a cold snap and I was out running in it because it makes me feel tough. On Saturday I ran 15K down along the river and it was -18. I just had my tights on and everything was fine down there (italics added because I’m talking about my penis).
On Sunday I went out for another run, but this one was leaving from home and heading up to Nose Hill Park. Again, the temperature was -18, but what I didn’t take note of was that the windchill was more significant – about -28. This was compounded by the fact that I was going to be running through the highest point in the city that provides no protection from the wind.
The previous day down by the river I was in a low valley and sheltered from the wind, which wasn’t blowing that hard anyway. Sunday was a different matter, and my penis paid the price for my cognitive inability to recognize this fact.
For the first half the wind was at my back and not an issue, but after 6K I turned around and headed straight into a harsh northern wind to get back home. When it hit me in the face I knew this was going to be bad.
My face was not the concern, however, as it gets enough blood flow during intense running to stave off frost bite. As I learned / mentioned in the IMPACT article, however, penes don’t get much blood flow while running unless you’re chasing a bunch of Swedish bikini models.
Things started to get cold, and then they started to get painful, and then I started to feel sorry for myself, and then I started to run faster.
After 4K of headwind I finally made it to the Nose Hill parking lot. The parking lot has a heated bathroom. The heated bathroom has a hand dryer. I usually groan when I see hand dryers. I hate those things and prefer to kill trees because… because fuck trees.
This time, however, I was grateful for the hand dryer.
And no, I did not blow the hand dryer down my pants. The thing makes enough noise that I would not have heard someone enter and I didn’t want to get caught in a compromising position. So instead I used the dryer to warm up my hands and then pretended I was a 14-year-old boy with an old copy of Playboy.
Oh, the memories.
I still had 2K left to go heading down Shaganappi Trail, and the wind was howling straight up the road and directly into my crotch. It was a cold 2K.
I burst through the front door of my house and my wife and best friend were watching the beginnings of the Saskatchewan – Calgary game. “My penis is cold!” I yelled at them.
Craig crossed his legs, and my wife said, “So, uh, do you want some help with that?” She’d really been looking forward to this football game, so this speaks volumes of her love for me.
“No, I’ll manage,” and I headed for the bathroom and ran my hands under near-scalding water and then shoved them down my pants. I came out into the living room and plopped on the couch next to my wife, playing with myself.
My wife laughed, my friend rolled his eyes, and the Stamps kicked Rider ass. For the first half of the game, anyway.
“Ooh. Aah. Ow.” I said as blood returned.
Craig, who is a paramedic in Banff, said, “We’re very generous with the narcotics for people coming out of frostbite. It hurts like a bastard.”
I looked at my physician wife imploringly.
“Forget it,” she said.
I continued to suffer, vocally, for several more minutes. Since I am writing this tale and not putting a gun in my mouth it should be obvious that I did not suffer any permanent damage.
Hopefully I won’t make this mistake a third time, because I’d hate to become involuntarily trans-gendered.