If you are a runner in one of the many areas of the country in the midst of yesterday's cold snap, you were inevitably asked that question (and chances are, the answer was yes).
I was asked at least six times, but I stopped counting.
Truth be told, I was happy to be asked so often because I could proudly proclaim each time that yes, indeed, I did run.
Nine miles. At 5 degrees Farenheit. With a wind chill of -20.
You are damn right I ran. I am proud and I will even brag a little.
Sure, my legs felt stiff the whole way, and my fingers were practically numb for the first few miles, and the wind sometimes pushed back so hard it was tough to move forward, and the mucous dripping from my nose froze onto my mustache, and the Gatorade in my bottle turned to slush.
But I soldiered through it - my coldest run ever.
As with every new experience in my eight-year running life, I took it in as an adventure. A story to tell later on.
Plus, I have the post-run selfie to prove it.
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