I woke up this morning in Bethel, Maine at 8:30 am, body throbbing from back-to-back days of alpine and nordic skiing, stomach groaning from a 5-course dinner, and brain shrouded in the wooly effects of celebratory wine and champagne (not discernibly mitigated by virtuous water-drinking from 11pm to midnight.)
Every New Year, I am determined to start the year off right. At that point, the ‘right’ thing to do would’ve been to go back to sleep until check-out time and counted the day as a rest day, but instead I donned jogging gear and headed out in the freezing rain to the hotel’s recreation center, which includes a humble gym with mid-1980s cardio machines and weights.
I hit the treadmill on 5.5, slowly shaking off my hangover, thankful none of my running muscles seemed to be too affected by skiing. On the treadmill next to me was a slightly older, plump woman who started off walking and then took off in a tortured, unsteady gallop that was punctuated by raspy panting. Within 10 minutes, we were both perspiring cleansing rivulets of sweat. She was trying to make a new habit, I was behooved by an old habit, but on New Year’s morning, both can result in some pretty gnarly running.
