I’m sitting here in my home office watching the Boston Marathon and, as usual, it’s blowing me away. The fact that so many people care about running and/or watching this race is a testament to human spirit.
How so many could fall in love with something so painful was always a mystery to me, but now that I am a runner, I understand it goes far deeper than the activity itself. The pain is a prerequisite to growth.
It’s about the feeling, the challenge, the quest. It’s one piece of the life-puzzle that keeps us on the right side of our dreams.
Yesterday, I took off on a run with no intention. It could have been 3 miles or 15, but I guessed I’d land somewhere in the middle. I hit mile 3 as I entered my favorite abandoned-airport and it started to rain. By the time I was on the lonely runway, the sky drenched me.
My instinct was to turn back and head home, but after a few strides, I was genuinely unsure whether or not I had gone to heaven. The cool rain washed my skin and I felt unusually clear and in the moment.
I have this tendency to seek childhood feelings, and in the middle of this monsoon I was back on the playground without a worry. Completely alone in the sandbox as I circled the one mile loop. It was truly surreal gazing into the pouring rain and stomping in warm puddles with every stride. My mind was free and my body responded with four more miles.
I found a running groove for the first time this year and seemingly floated at a pace far faster than I anticipated. It was gliding more than running. No one watched, no one cared, and I imagined the home stretch at Boston with fans cheering my will to dig deeper.
Nothing mattered other than being the best me at that moment, and frankly, I think I was.