The torpid two

By this time of year, I have usually settled into my winter hibernation den—a.k.a. the gym—for some quality time on the treadmill and the elliptical machine.

But since my gym membership has expired and I plan to put off purchasing a new one for as long as possible, I have been spending more time exercising in sub-freezing temperatures than usual.

Here’s the thing: don’t tell Gov. Brian Schweitzer or his bolo tie, but I’m not really a true Montanan. I mean, I live here, and I love it, but when the mercury drops, I turn into a real pansy.

My treadmill dependence, it seems, has finally caught up with me. Now that I’ve found myself without access to one, I have been forced to confront my cold-weather wussiness.

I have been running outside in conditions I would never have dreamed of stepping out in as my former self. As a result, my body is not adapted to move normally in such an environment. My usual quick, efficient stride has devolved into a stiff, lethargic lope.

My “winter pace,” however, has allowed me the opportunity to take in my surroundings with more detail than ever before.

During the snowy months of the Montana winter (October through June), wildlife sightings are usually few and far between. So, on a particularly chilly day last week, I was surprised to see a squirrel scampering across the road.

Actually, scampering isn’t really the word. It was more like the squirrel version of a slow-motion jog. Like, if there had been a bunch of squirrels, you could have filmed a squirrel version of the beach scene in Chariots of Fire. (Do I hear YouTube sensation?)

My speed-challenged, bushy-tailed friend struck a chord with me. I wondered why he, too, looked like he was caught in an invisible vat of molasses.

So of course, when I finally returned home, I went straight to the Google to satisfy my curiosity.

Turns out, squirrels—along with many other mammals—drift in and out of a state of reduced metabolic activity when the temperature drops. According to Wikipedia—which means there’s about a 50 percent chance of accuracy—it’s called “torpor.”

When an animal enters a torpid state, its heart rate can drop as low as four to eight beats per minute—per MINUTE. That’s like one heartbeat every 15 seconds!

Every now and then, when temperatures allow, the animal can come out of torpor and resume normal activity. But it’s not like they just 1-2-3-snap! out of it. So my little nut-hunting rodent pal had probably just woken up from the deepest sleep ever. Who could blame him for being a little groggy?

And that, my friends, sounds like a pretty good idea right about now. I think I’ll take a cue from nature, go brush my teeth and settle in for some nice, quality torpor.