Start Date + Snow

Last week I returned to the sunny, if not cold climes of Dorsetshire. Lucie (super duper new friend from Harpenden) was going to Bournemouth to visit her sister and so I took the opportunity to road trip with her so I could spend 48 hours at home. 

 

Cars are not my forte and in this particularly appalling attempt I seem to have downgraded her from a Clio to some sort of retro Seat Ibiza/Suzuki Swift amalgamation.

 

I am becoming a bit of an expert at drawing cartoon animals though so, for the purposes of this blog, let's pretend that traveled by a camel named Clio.

 

Having left Harpenden in what can only be described as polar conditions, we braved the snow and ice of 5 counties in our journey. Every boundary line we crossed was a celebration of our capacity for survival; our expert negotiation of arctic weather, a status shared only with the other drivers on the road that day. Periodically we'd catch the eye of a fellow adventurer, and share a superior look that said 'Yes, we're the same, you and I; intrepid explorers, fearless in this apocalyptic climate.' 

As we crossed Hampshire I reassured Lucie that by the time we exited the New Forest the snow would have declined and Dorset would be defending England's reputation as a 'green and pleasant land'. 

Aside from last winter when I was out of the country (and therefore don't count it), I have only experienced significant snow in Dorset once and I was 3 years old.

However much it had tried to snow, it had never settled much beyond a sprinkling and I didn't think this winter would make an exception.

I was right.

County line in sight, the snow stopped right on queue and, with Clio wearing the snow of Hertforshire on her bonnet like a medal, we entered Dorset as Champions of the Weather. 

 After a lengthy defrost by the fire Lucie continued on her now more amenable journey to Bournemouth, and having printed out a route from Google maps, promptly went in completely the wrong direction.

After two weeks of being in an increasingly frozen area of the country I'd been looking forward to being in an area that I could trust to withstand the peer pressure of other counties to allow snow to settle. 
Finally I could be outside without fear of slipping over and for me this meant one important thing - I could go for a run. 
However, one thing Dorset's salty air couldn't withstand was the drop in temperature so this meant running in sub zero conditions. Raw stupidity coupled with an unrelenting devotion to my almost OCD running routine got me out the door.

 Far from throwing all caution to the wind, I decided to wrap up as best I could. Working bottom up I donned the thickest socks I could risk in my running shoes and, not owning long running trousers I coupled my 3/4s with leg warmers. Having left my black ones in Harpenden though, this meant wearing those usually reserved only for fancy dress. 

Next, I layered  a t-shirt with a fleece, gloves and a thermal head band. To top it all off, I donned a fluorescent vest so I'd be clearly visible in the fast fading light.  

I usually run early in the morning and with my all black outfit this vest doesn't usually look too bad. (And if it does, no one can recognise me in the darkness!)

 Accessorized with pink knitwear however I looked as if I'd covered myself in glue, run into the wardrobe department of Fame the musical, rolled around and worn what stuck.

Brilliant.

Before I could weigh the safety aspect of the horrific ensemble against the risk of being hit by a car, I set out. My usual route takes me on a gentle 5 mile loop out from the village, into the next town and back. Being built entirely on a hill however, this run means not only going down a gentle mile long hill, but back up it. On the steep side.

 I'm sure that when the original Norman settlers took up residence the hill provided a perfect vantage point to spy out possible invasions from the surrounding area and in fact, as I began my own ascent I congratulated them on their choice. 

Or I would have done had I been able to concentrate on anything other than putting one foot in front of the other.

 Puffing and panting my way to its summit, my legs started to burn and with every breath my warm lungs were invaded by air so cold I could feel them contract in despair. Little flecks of saliva involuntarily left my mouth with each exhalation but my willpower would not let me stop until I got to the top of the hill where I could reclaim at least some of my dignity (and take a short cut home).

 

Ordinarily I would sprint the final 200m, slow to a jog and then walk to cool down. However, realising a sudden thirst, my acceleration met with stupidity and I ran straight through the front door. Once inside the central heating hit me like a suffocating wall and in my half frozen, half sweaty delirium I headed straight for the drink of cold water I'd left out for myself. 

This is not a move I would recommend. 

 My body was not ready for yet another cold element to enter it and suddenly feeling hot, dizzy and sick I called pathetically for my Mum who told me to pace slowly in the hallway. Giddy and feeling very sorry for myself, I decided now would be a good time to remove some of my excessive layers. 

In the wrong order.

As I attempted to remove my leg warmers over my shoes I tripped over and crouched on the carpet of my parent's house wondering if I was too old to be sick on it and not invoke anger...

The next day Lucie and I had arranged to do the return trip and I was awoken early by something hitting my window. 

It was my Dad throwing snow balls. 

For the first time since I was 3 years old, snow has settled heavily in Dorset.