A Sudden Cold Snap and a 5 km Decision

On the coldest morning of the year, I scheduled myself to run 5 kilometers. I hadn’t expected the sudden drop in temperature to be so intense. The day before, it was still a pleasant twenty-something degrees; the next morning, when I woke up, the perceived temperature was only around three to five degrees.

After crossing into the new year, the only run I had done was on the morning of January 3rd, when I took the lingering warmth of New Year’s energy to the seaside and jogged 10 kilometers. That day, the sun was bright—exactly the kind of weather I love for running. With a gentle sea breeze, running at an easy pace while taking photos, the joy was almost overflowing.

Originally, I planned to record each running experience. That 10 km run could have been pure feel-good writing. But it wasn’t until this winter morning 5km run, in freezing air and low light, that I realized what I truly wanted to document wasn’t only perfect experiences—but also growth.

Running Before Sunrise: Cold, Moonlight, and Resistance

On the morning of the 5 km run, the sky hadn’t fully brightened. Because it was close to the fifteenth day of the lunar month, the moon was still hanging brightly in the sky even after I finished running. Afraid of the cold, I wore thermal underwear and leggings. In a southern city, days that require two layers of pants are rare.

The first three kilometers were genuinely difficult. I had dressed too warmly, so my body felt both cold and overheated. The wind against my face and hands brought a sharp chill I hadn’t felt in a long time. I once saw someone online describe stepping outside in winter as being “attacked” by the cold—it felt exactly like that.

At that early hour, nearly everyone exercising outside was wrapped tightly—mostly older people. The nearby park has a 1.5 km loop, but I rarely run there. Three laps don’t quite reach five kilometers, and mentally it feels endless. Running by the sea is different. During a winter morning run along the coast, distance seems to disappear. When my watch vibrates to signal completion, I often think, Already?

The Body’s Turning Point and the Power of Routes

Running routes deeply affect mindset. I can’t imagine running a marathon on a short looped track—circling endlessly without a clear sense of progress would be crushing. At least in a long, linear run, suffering has direction.

Somewhere after the third kilometer, my body shifted. The tightness eased. The cold faded. It felt like breaking through a thin layer of fog and entering a warm, dry, fragrant cloud. I expect that moment every time, yet it always surpasses imagination.

That feeling can’t be explained properly. It must be experienced.

Feeling unexpectedly light, I found a quieter path and did a few sets of interval training. I rarely do intervals. Sprinting—even for just 50 to 100 meters—makes my heart pound more violently than a steady 5 km run. Still, speed is the next frontier for me.

From an eight-minute pace to seven, and now finishing full marathons at around six, I know progress is real. Maybe running faster means suffering for a shorter time. Maybe it’s about learning to move lightly, confidently. Even with a relaxed training mindset, I occasionally persuade myself to push.

A Winter Morning Run as Proof of Inner Strength

Intervals were part of that day’s plan. I hadn’t accounted for the cold. If I had thought too much about sprinting in freezing air, I might never have left home. The hardest part of any run is stepping out the door. Once outside, reality is always gentler than imagination.

My hands were still icy after five kilometers, but on the small path I removed my jacket, set up my phone, and felt like a living symbol of vitality.

Our bodies are far stronger than we expect. Running demands willpower, but the longer you run, the more your body rewards you with surprises. No one else can give you that many honest, consistent confirmations of strength.

I used to not understand people running in shorts and T-shirts in winter. Now I believe that with time and accumulation, I may become one of them.

I still fear the cold—but during a winter morning run, the cold is no longer an enemy. It becomes an invitation. Each small breakthrough strengthens my belief that there are infinite possibilities within us, waiting patiently to be uncovered.

People don’t stay young forever, but I’m grateful I began running early. And if you’re older, it’s never too late. Aging isn’t only loss—it’s also the quiet accumulation of strengths we haven’t yet learned to recognize.

Happy running. Every record I write exists to share one simple truth: running brings joy. I look forward to the next reluctant run—and to the dopamine afterward that carries me back to writing.

I like meeting you quietly this way.