In an earlier blog, I wrote about my pile. It’s a big, smelly thing sitting black and foul in the corner of the room…Wait, Keith, do you have to resort to such juvenile, sophomoric metaphors comparing your running clothes to human excrement. No, I don’t. However, pile none-the-less.
My pile has somewhere between ten to fifteen pieces of clothing in it. There are my Pearl Izumi tights, a Nike Windbreaker, a pair of Nike DryFit pants, several base layers, socks, a pair of shorts. This isn’t a complete inventory. Instead, in trying to give and account and build an impression, I gave my pile a glance to see if I could give a partial view of its contents. Whenever I need to run, it’s the go to locale for my gear.
Some may wonder at the diversity of clothing. Shorts? In January? Aren’t we in the Vortex? School closed for a day? To this I say, “Wait.” This weekend, we’re supposed to be in the fifties. I live in the Mid-Atlantic under a period of climate change. Trails frozen today will be muddy forty-eight hours from now. The pile has to accommodate for whatever the weather may bring.
The pile is my saviour. It keeps me from thinking and denying. When I’m finished with the day job and need to chug out seven miles, and every excuse dogs my heels–comfy chair, too cold, Ellen, snack–I can cruise past them all, dig into my pile and pull out what I need. Within five minutes, I can change from work clothes to lacing up my sneaks for the road. This makes all the difference. It’s allowed me to make the afternoon habitual and routine rather than an exception.
I worry none about laundry in the short term. That’s an additional burden, and when I’m trying to get mileage on, then being sweet-smelling becomes secondary to the fifty-mile week. My wife might want to say differently, but she is, thankfully, tolerant (re: gives it a wide berth).