Slippery slopes and icy patches

I've given up reporting on snow, how deep it is, how slushy/icy/white/grey it is, how nice the mountains look. You can pretty much assume that, unless I wax lyrical about wonderfully unseasonal hairdryer weather, it is snowy, cold and boring. I am not unproud of the fact that I get out there almost every day and pound the streets, regardless of their condition. In fact, I would say that I have become quite adept at not falling over (apart from this morning when I nearly broke my leg running down a hill and am therefore about to buy some winter running shoes with spikes on). However, there are still places where I have to be terribly careful not to fall over backwards. Now normally, when out running, I see nobody at all. The occasional dogwalker or horserider, or a man having a sneaky pee behind a barn - he was so freaked out when I ran up behind him and coughed loudly - but apart from that noone is out there braving the elements in a lunatic way EXCEPT those old, weatherbeaten farmer types, who never seem short of something to do. And it is always when I am negotiating a horribly icy patch that I find one of them watching me, leaning on his shovel/scythe/pitchfork/other longhandled farming tool, only his eyes moving in an otherwise impassive face. Inwardly I pray that I will not choose this moment to fall over, because I know that they won't respond with a chirpy Bavarian equivalent of 'enjoy your trip, come back next fall'; rather, they will regard me in silence as I pick myself up and dust the snow and horse manure off my backside and lumber off, red in the face if I wasn't already. So far God has been kind. I might have wobbled a bit, but I've remained upright. When I get my icebug shoes, though, you won't see me for slush. I'll be past those farmers before they've even raised their heads from their respective muck heaps.