October has a way of ambushing my evening runners. Three weeks ago they were cruising home from work in golden six-o’clock light, shorts on, sunglasses shoved into their waistbands. Now that same six o’clock rush is pitch black, the crosswalks are crowded with headlights, and the shoulder they’ve trusted all summer has become a place where cars simply do not expect to find a human being. I learned this lesson the hard way a few years back, when one of my Tuesday-night group regulars came in shaking. A driver had turned across her path in a parking lot, stopped six…
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Every October, my Tuesday-morning running group gets smaller and darker. Headlamps blink on at 6:15, breath fogs in the streetlight glow, and the conversation drops to a murmur because everyone is listening for the one sound that matters more than any podcast: traffic. That rule did not come out of a textbook. It came out of a morning four autumns ago when one of my longtime clients stepped off a curb in front of a silent electric delivery van. Her earbuds were noise-isolating. The van driver was alert. She was lucky. I stopped being lucky that day and started being…
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Every year, right around the last week of October, my group texts go quiet. The 6 a.m. crew that spent all of September hammering out tempo work on the river path suddenly develops elaborate excuses. My favorite this season came from a client named Dana, who wrote, verbatim, “it is 38 degrees and I am one woman, not a furnace.” She was joking, but she was also gone for three weeks. Here is the thing I have learned after two decades of coaching people through the cold: the problem is almost never the cold. It is the wardrobe. Most people…
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Last Tuesday at seven in the evening, I laced up for my usual neighborhood loop and made it exactly four blocks before I noticed the streetlights flickering on above me. Two months ago, that same run happened under a sky so bright I wore sunglasses. Now I was squinting at cracked sidewalks and dodging shadows I couldn’t quite judge. My training partner laughed when I grumbled about it, but my coaching brain was already doing the math: we are entering the six-week stretch where daylight disappears at roughly two minutes per day, and most people don’t adapt until their routine…