Winter Drivers

Dear Winter Drivers,

Eleven years ago when I entered the running community, I never dreamed that it would lead me to a place in my life where I am dedicated enough to run in sub-zero temperatures, feeling like the snow is 1,000 tiny ninja stars being thrown onto my face.

But here I am.

It is January 27th, and we are in the depths of that deep, dark pit that we call winter in Ohio. Nonetheless, there is no rest for the weary and we, as collegiate runners, must press on. There are races to be run and fitness to be gained.

And you people are not making it any easier.

Allow me to paint a picture for you here, in the hopes that you can begin to understand my frustration. It's cold. Already I have walked across campus to class and started making deals with Mother Nature that include promising to stop using Styrofoam cups if only she'll turn that damn wind off for three minutes. And that's only to make it the 500 meters to the student center from my apartment. So you can imagine, I'm sure, that by 3:30 PM when it's time for practice, I am already dreading the idea of piling on running tights and three jackets to spend an hour in that same weather, running on the roads that you, apparently, think you own.

You, who maintain your speed of 45 mph in a 30 mph zone and test my reflexes by waiting to steer clear of me until the very. last. second. You, who honk at me mercilessly as I tromp though the slushy gutters like a downtrodden alley cat trying not to get caught under your tires. You, who look disgusted - nay, offended - by the fact that I would even dream of stepping foot into this public road. You, who probably think that an hour spent on a treadmill is as simple and enjoyable as a long bath in a jacuzzi tub.

You, who should know that  your sneaky maneuvers and subtle hints to get the hell off your road are making an impact on my winter running habits. But not the type you're probably hoping to.

By nearly plowing through me like February snow, you only tempt me to run further toward the yellow line and force you to follow behind me like the police car at the end of the parade. Every time you play the car horn version of jingle bells when you pass by, I memorize your license plate number and make mental plans to find your house, sit outside it during family dinners, and adapt the entire score of Oklahoma with my own horn. Your searing dirty looks and unrealistic treadmill expectations only make me believe that you are one of the 109.2 million people who are obsese in America.

You do not make me want to get off the road. You, vicious and impatient winter drivers, make me determined to conquer the roads in a crazed, Dr. Evil sort of way. And I cannot be deterred.

So go. Run your errands and enjoy the warmth of your heated seats and remote started car. But be warned that the groceries you're getting for dinner won't be enjoyed if you dare honk at an innocent runner.

And remember, all this could be solved if you'd just shovel your sidewalk.