I woke up this morning to the sound of rain, a frequent occurrence this time of year in Seattle. Boomer the dog is ecstatic about his morning walk; trotting around in the dark, wet, and cold fills him with unfettered delight. Perhaps it is it just the knowledge that breakfast follows the walk, but I think not. I am convinced that it is the pure joy of being outside, sniffing out the nuances of his canine domain, feeling the breeze on his coat, exalting in his introduction to the new day.
I should be more like Boomer; my attitude is not that great. Driving to the spot to meet my Saturday morning running group goes all too quickly, though I try to concentrate on the warm seat and the dark but familiar streets. I park my car at exactly 7:00, but I wait inside. The weather is wretched, and I know that no one will start running for at least six or seven minutes. I stay in the car, luxuriating in its comforting embrace.
All too soon, Running Buddy Jean pulls up beside me and gets out of her car. I am shamed into stepping out of mine, even though the run will not start for a few more minutes. We exchange comments about the weather in a subdued, somewhat resigned, tone. We amble over to the outdoor fireplace at Starbucks and huddle while greeting the other runners. Coincidentally, everyone has just come back from a Thanksgiving weekend at a warm and sunny locale. Well, everyone except for me. Matt notes that this is the worst Saturday morning weather we have had in calendar year 2021. Not an auspicious start.
We move out, more like a shuffle than a jog. I get to the end of the coffee shop roof overhang, and I pause – momentarily – and tell someone to give me a push. I joke that my motivation stalled when I realized that I was going to get wet on this outing. Really wet.
We settle into a slow run, scanning the ground for slippery leaf piles and wayward tree branches. We jump off and onto sidewalks depending on the terrain and on-coming cars. We start to talk, knowing that conversation will help distract us from the unpleasant trifecta of gloomy, raining, and cold.
We are seasoned runners, and we know something magic will occur at about the twenty-minute mark. Until then, we grumble about the darkness and how cold our hands are. I remark that the rain seems to be letting up, but then I realize it is only wishful thinking. Despite my firm belief in my puddle-dodging prowess, I hit one squarely; it is deeper and wider than I had anticipated. My right foot is drenched in frigid water. I grimace and gently berate myself for lacking the foresight to avoid it.
Despite the overcast cloud coverage, the sky begins to lighten. Daylight improves the visibility, and our perspectives brighten. Our breathing lengthens as do our strides. The rainfall mysteriously morphs into cooling dampness. A wondrous transformation begins: our disgruntled opposition to the elements has mutated to an alignment with Mother Nature, who now cools and soothes us.
Jean turns up a trail to take a different path back to the starting point, as the other runners have, and I am alone. The reassuring thud of my footsteps, and the rustle of my windbreaker, fills my consciousness. For reasons incalculable, I begin to feel more energetic. The turnover of my steps quickens, not due to intention but simply because my spirit is irrepressible. I know I am not fast, but the joy of movement is unrestrained. I breathe deeply, grateful for the ability to move through the world at a pace that lightens and aligns me.
I arrive back at Starbucks an hour and ten minutes after leaving it, and my trusty running buddies – and a supporting cast of comrades – call out, and ask, how was it? It was great, I reply. I could not be happier.
Boomer would be so proud.