Seven o'clock in the morning and it's 24 degrees outside.  We got in last night from Kentucky and found snow on the ground.  This morning I can see that it is just patchwork, loose jigsaw pieces of snow scattered around by the snow person in the sky.  Time for extra layers.
Silks under my running pants will keep my legs warm. Up top: a t-shirt, a turtleneck shirt, a wool sweater, a Polartec vest, and a windbreaker.  Then the toppers: a nice warm balaclava and a pull down knit cap over that.  And gloves, of course. I step outside. What am I, nuts?
Once I get started, it's not bad at all.  Although there's some snow still in my driveway, the streets are clear.  Not too much wind to contend with either, which is great. I start up the long, low hill, the one that goes on further than I'm ready to go, so I always cut left about halfway up.  Then it's slightly downhill most of the rest of the way. Out on Highway 89, there's not as much traffic as usual.  It's like a Sunday. I begin to suspect there's something I don't know.  Only one loose dog but he turns and goes the other way.
Coming to my second uphill, I have more energy than usual, so I can take it at a slightly faster clip than I normally do.  Than I walk a block to catch my breath before jogging up the third hill that leads back to the cemetery near my house. I walk through it.  Fancy Pants, our big long-haired orange cat, often meets me before I get through the graveyard but this morning she has stayed home. She's smarter than me.
A short, slow run, but enough to make me feel less guilty if I lose my self-control and eat something bad. I think I was powered this morning by the euphoria of being home from my trip, back to my natural surroundings, sleeping in my own bed with my own cat on my face.