Frozen sand

Before the summer drought, DC had summer floods. For the multi-use trail in Rock Creek Park, this meant the pavement was covered in several inches of thick mud. After a very messy week, the mud was plowed to the side and eventually dried into sand.

(Multi-use, by the way, means that all non-motorized people—plus, of course, the motorized police—can use the trail. In practice, this means that parents, convinced that their charming offspring are better when unrestrained, let toddlers dash suddenly in front of runners and that pet owners, equally convinced that their precious animals should not be put in anything more restrictive than a retractable leash, let the leash be pulled across the path—invisible to a cyclist, until just too late. And people wonder why I prefer to run when it is really cold or really hot: fewer pet owners, and very few parents.)

I run on the dirt by the asphalt trail as much as possible, both for the health of my knees and to avoid the parents and pet owners. During the summer drought, this meant slogging through tiring sections of deep, loose sand. As the rains came, the sand compacted somewhat, but was still soft and shifting.

Today, it was frozen, and the echoing thud of my feet startled me. This was pure cold.

I have always found something comforting in the elemental. Even if the element itself is unpleasant, as the depth of cold that results in frozen sand is. When you confront something that actually and unarguably is—something which cannot be disputed or ignored or overcome—the solid factness is reassuring. Existing outside ourselves, it cannot be reduced by our own equation.