Another winter storm is blasting the East Coast with snow today. For the third time this season, a mass of tropical moisture, fierce enough to spawn tornados, formed along the northern edge of the Gulf of Mexico, raced across drought-stricken Florida, and turned north in the direction of Greenland.
Riding like a star upon jet stream winds of a frosted heaven, the storm, like its two sister blizzards, is destined to follow the currents of the Gulf Stream and skirt up the Jersey Shore like Snookie.
Meteorologists are calling for eight inches in New York. I could use eight inches. My body feels alive and sexy again. Snow inspires me and my sex drive rivals that of the Situation when barometric pressure falls.
This being the third blizzard in less than a month requires that a name be given. These storms, like hurricanes should be named. The winter storms are like craigslist hookers; seemingly on a path to outrun a deranged John.
At approximately 6:20 a.m. this morning, just after local news weathermen demonstrated on radar that the frontal boundary of the potentially harsh winter storm out of the Gulf was still as far south as Elizabeth, New Jersey, I went jogging.
Like a craigslist hooker, I made my way expeditiously through a “mixed-bag of precipitation.” That was what a weather lady wearing a huge garnet necklace prepared me for—a mixed bag. It was easy to see the coast was clear for at least an hour by observing the radar; the rain and snow mix was highlighted in pink. My legs needed to stretch because they have been tied up inside for days and I know it will be eons before sidewalks are passable for running again.
Across icy sidewalks and mounds of plowed dirty snow, I ran like a nymph in the morning fog. The fog was more like a mist, evaporating in translucent vapor from atop month- old snow banks. This was not a traditional San Francisco pea-soup fog. I was fearful that I would slip and bust my ass. I have no insurance. Suddenly, I remembered why it was I was outside in the dark on a cold morning running alongside mounds of snow from the last storm—I’m getting fat again. Ice Pyramids blocked access to my stride.
Just as I rounded Prospect Park and came to the point from which I had entered this little Amazon forest of Brooklyn, it started to snow– no ‘mixed-bag’– just snow. I slowed, deciding to walk down Underhill Avenue instead of jogging; but the snow flakes, like little razor blades, pecked like needles upon my steamy face. I ran again across the recently shoveled sidewalks now covered in a silk-like mesh of huge snowflakes. Trash was piled high all around me. I knew if I slipped I could catch myself like Tonya Harding spinning on point. I ran faster knowing it was still early and if I wanted to avoid the rush hour of New York City and the ferocious storm, I had better get my ass in gear and run back home.
Dog piss has been scattered everywhere in Kings County this winter. Yellow patches simply will not melt and go away. I was getting fat again, being restricted from my runs and that God-awful double chin that is creeping up on me. These storms and the snow that does not melt are the reason. All this yellow Brooklyn snow makes one wonder. I will not grow a beard just because I’m getting old and fat! I will remain clean shaven and run as much as possible, between these Nor-Easters.
It was easy to see where stuck-up dog owners of Brooklyn picked up blobs of crap like craiglists Johns placing everything they have inside plastic bags; I side-stepped the lesion-like scars in the snow. It has been more than a week since my last run around Prospect Park.
I’m out of breath now.
My mouth is still sensitive and susceptible to the cold air. I had a tooth extracted last week. The hole thumped somewhat as I started the run, but before reaching Atlantic Avenue, the hole in my gum served as a tambourine of sorts– one played to my heart beat– a cadence of rushing blood and random thought!
For the first time in what seemed like a long winter, my head no longer hurt. The toothache vanished on my run in the yellow snow. I am free think clearly, even in the snow.
Prospect Park, where the urban forest floor is still covered in at least five inches of firmly treaded snow, I run– run from the Johns of Brooklyn– the dog owners who simply shit all over this place. Today, or at least this morning, the landscape was white again, free of their clutter. May the purity last for a long while, or at least until this stiffness leaves my legs.
If I had lighter boots, I’d run again tomorrow through the eight inches of snow, because eight inches is just what I need.