Splash, hop, zig, leap, squish (stride stride), was the only constant under my feet tonight on the roads. Snow had given away to a sheet of slush that was held together by a melting top layer, no more than a centimetre thick.
Of the thousands of strides I hit tonight, only but a few hundred were done without the hint of slippage. My calves burned from the sensation of trying to keep upright while maintaining a proper running cadence.
About an hour and 10 minutes into the run, on the unlit portion, on came Miles Davis and Seven Steps to Heaven, one of those masterpieces that I never thought would go so well with a run, but it did.
Ever try to dance to jazz? Not very sucessful. But try leaping in and out of puddles on a snowy night, the water squishing inside your soles, and you may find yourself in perpetual motion, stopping starting, improvising a sidestep a moment before a leap. When you're moving at 5:20 kilometres with unsure footing, there's no other feeling, no single beat you can lay on to. But jazz, Miles Davis jazz, yeah, that seemed to work tonight.
9 miles in 1:17:01