When the alarm went off at 4:00AM this morning, I was
unaware of the current weather conditions outside. And that’s probably a good
thing, for had I known, I likely would have opted for the extra hour of
sleep. But until I went downstairs, I
didn’t know it was raining, and until I turned on the TV, I didn’t know it was
37 degrees outside the warmth of my house.
37 and raining. I assure you that
at 37 degrees, it is a cold rain indeed.
Why would anyone in their right mind go out in that? Especially an old aging runner who struggles
to run a mile at a 10 minute pace.
So I dallied and dawdled, hoping the rain would move out
before it was time to run, and as I waited with no positive effect, it got later and later. And the rain kept on falling. While I went through by pre-run motions, I started thinking of all kinds of reasons to
retreat back to the bedroom and avoid the discomfort of this cold rainy
darkness. Surely, even running in the
snow would be better. A bone chilling
cold without the accompanying wetness would be better. Crawling back into a nice warm bed with and
cuddling up to my wife would be way better.
But this combination of comfort threats was looming as very
unattractive.
About 55 minutes after my alarm first went off, the moment
of truth arrived. It was truly either
now or not today. Thanks to my
lingering, my maximum run had already been cut to 3 miles, as I need to be back
in the house by 5:30 to start my “real” day, the one I live for others. But the morning run is my sacred time; my
moment of real truth, and in reality, that, more than anything, is what drives
me to do it.
Yes, I have running-related goals. My current long term one is the Grand Rapids
Marathon, and training is not just an element of success, but a requirement. At the time I am writing this, the race is
still 236
days, 21 hours, 2 minutes, and 33 seconds away (assuming it starts right on
time) That’s still a long time away, so how important is a three mile run on a
cold wet morning today? I mean really?
Even as I moved towards the front door, opened it, felt the wet
chill in my face, and pulled the door closed behind me, I took three steps out
and as many steps back, opened the door and stepped back in for a few seconds,
still arguing with myself. That’s how
close I came to nixing the run. But
something pushed me out again, and it was finally “Game On.” In all honesty, as I started down the
street, I was still wondering if I was dedicated, crazy or something else? Why
the hell am I out there, doing a relatively insignificant three miles on a day
I wouldn’t send a dog out in?
But as I continued the run (at a slightly quicker than usual pace)
the doubt slowly melted, and the insignificance of the run changed to clarity,
even in a foggy rain. Running can be
inspiring, but not every run is inspired.
Running can get routine, and sometimes, that routine needs a little
shaking up. There is not much better than a cold rain in the early morning
darkness to do just that.
My mind started to wander as I observed, even literally, that even
a dog would not be out in predawn cold rain like this. Most mornings, there is at least that sign of
life. I’m usually earlier than most
other runners in my neighborhood, but this morning’s silence even encompassed
the four legged variety. The dog
“regulars” were not being walked, most likely because their two-legged
companions did not want to go there with them.
I was definitely on a road not taken by anyone else at this time on this
day. And I was feeling an overwhelming
satisfaction in having this road all to myself.
Before I knew it, the run was over, and I realized that the misery
that my mind had imagined before I started never developed. In fact, it ended up being a more enjoyable
run than many. The cold rain had faded
into the background, even though it never let up for the 30 minutes I was out
playing in it. But lost in thought, I
had forgotten about it all together. The
main evidence that the rain continued during my run was not the perpetual
discomfort, because it had been replaced by contentment. The evidence was contained in my shoes and
clothes, heavy and soaked.
During my run, I was reminded of a poem by one of my more favorite
poets growing up, Robert Frost. In his poem The Road Not Taken, he
wrote
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Two roads diverged in a wood, and
I—
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I took the one less traveled by,
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And that has made all the
difference.
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I mused back to an hour earlier, facing that fork in the road, the
one between closing the front door in front of me and going back to bed, or
closing it behind me and taking the road less traveled, at least this day. Will
today’s run make me a better runner in the long run? Not likely.
Was it important for me to not skip today’s run as I prepare for a
marathon nearly eight months from now. I
haven’t even started training for it yet, so again, the answer is no. But the real question is, did this morning’s
run contribute to making me a better person today? To that question, my answer is a resounding
yes! On a gloomy, cold dark morning, I
took the road less traveled by, and today, that has made all the difference.
