The first mile and a half is the toughest. In those six, eight or 12 minutes, your hands seem to get progressively colder and wind whips at every bit of exposed skin turning it red like the coals glowing in the woodstove that you foolishly left behind at home.
If you're lucky, the sun is out and you can think about how great it is to live in Central Oregon in January because unlike those poor schleps in Salt Lake City, Missoula or Bellingham, you can at least occasionally get some Vitamin D while you freeze. More than likely, though, it's sleeting sideways and the dark is either being slow to retreat or closing in fast, and you're thinking you should remember to buy batteries for your headlamp before this weekend's 10-miler.
At 2,000 steps, your blood finally reaches your toes, and your feet go from cherry popsicles to something bordering on comfortable. You pick up your head, squint your eyes against the grit the weather gods are throwing your way and grin. In arctic temperatures and ugly weather, you're taking control. You're getting stronger, healthier, happier. Big Bob selling treadmills on late night infomercials on channel 352 can kiss your ass. You're filled with joy, and all you have to do for the next forty minutes is keep putting one foot in front of the other.
