It's cold outside. Colder than it was before the sun completed its journey, down below the line of mountains in the distance. There is a bite in the air, and as I take off on my run I see my breath come out in puffs.
As I get farther away from the warm glow of my house I touch my running belt compulsively, feeling for everything - gels, glucometer, pricker, test strips. It's all there. My finger tips are aching already and I haven't even made it to the lake. I feel my pace quicken.
Running in my town is different than I imagine road running in other places is - there are no 24/7 convenience stores, no stores at all actually, and I'm far more likely to see woodland creatures than other humans while on my journey. I think this increases my trepidation - I can't dash into a 7/11 and buy an apple juice if I under-pack. And as I make my way around the water in the stillness of the night, I start to wonder if anyone would see me if I went down. It's getting increasingly darker the further I go, under the hood of the trees with the woods edging up to the opposite side of the street. What animals come out at night? I can't remember.
As I approach one mile I've already decided I'm only going for two today - I'll loop around and turn back instead of completing the circle around the lake. I'm feeling the muscles in my back cramp up and thoroughly spooked by how poorly I can see. I wave my reader over my Libre sensor and am happy with the result - 146 - at first. But as I start into the second mile I feel a niggling in the pit of my stomach. Is the dark inhibiting my ability to feel my low? What about the cold?
I dig out my glucometer supplies and prick my finger as I run, a delicate skill I've learned to master. The number flashes on my meter - 76. The darkness acts as my friend then, hiding the annoyance on my face and bearing witness to the soft curses I whisper as I tear a gel open with my mouth. I toss the used test strip and methodically squeeze the gel into my mouth with my hands and teeth. When its done I cram the wrapper into my belt. I pick up speed. I'll sprint the rest of the way, I think, and this lasts about half a mile, until I feel the gel turning over in my stomach and the muscles seizing in my back. I slow my pace down again.
I feel the dark closing in on me, and I feel the urge to test again. Not until at least five minutes have passed. I reprimand myself and I keep running, fighting off thoughts of being too cold to feel my sugar dropping or of a feral raccoon surprising me in the darkness.
Finally the five minutes pass. I do my dance of testing while running again and feel simultaneously proud that I waited the full five minutes, and annoyed that I went low during my run. The number flashes - 89. I let out a loud sigh.
The lights from the beach come into view and I fall into an easy stride, trying to lower my heart rate and slow my breathing. I hit two miles and slow to a walk. My house is around the corner. I think of how we have no street lights here and how my friends in Bergen County find this terrifying.
When I make it through the front door I declare to my mother that I don't like running at night. She's thrilled. My sugar stays steady throughout dinnertime, and I tuck my fears away. Until next time.
