Yesterday I had a track workout to do—along with reams of work, so I didn’t get out the door until almost 3:30. Winter has most definitely set in over Portland, with bone-chilling temps, rain, and early darkness. I usually think of myself as hardy and stoic, but I felt cold and miserable on my way over to the track, where I was the sole idiot, uh, I mean, runner. The low clouds diminished the remaining daylight, and my soaked jacket clung to my body. I couldn’t feel my fingertips inside my gloved hands. I was feeling sorry for myself as I chugged around the track, starting out with two miles at half-marathon pace.
Then “Into the Mystic” shuffled onto my iPod. It got me thinking about my college boyfriend, a big fan of Van the Man. My thoughts then tripped over to one of his best friends--who I just found out died in a car accident this summer. The friend was married with two young daughters. As I thought about him and his family, my pity-party came to a sudden halt.
Sure, it was a steel-grey day and big raindrops were dripping off the brim of my hat, but I suddenly found myself thankful to have my quads straining, to be breathing in nippy air, to be feeling the rain on my skin, to be listening to music. I found myself glad to be alive.