Being a runner in New England is kind of like being a skier in California: doable, but not easy. Spring and summer are nice, and fall is as near to perfect as weather can get, but winter weather makes running outside almost impossible.
Wintertime means that roads and sidewalks will become unpassable mountains of icy snow, outdoor tracks will turn into skating rinks, and the sun will disappear behind a curtain of gray clouds for days or weeks. There is always plenty of nice fluffy snow, but there’s also sleet, freezing rain, full-on blizzards, and my personal favorite (yes, it’s a real thing), thundersnow. Despite all this, the die-hard runners (or at least the crazy ones, like I used to be) will still find a way to make it happen.
When I was in high school, I ran laps with my track team around the inside of the school. We would race down one hallway, slam on the brakes, sprint down the next hallway, and so on until we’d complete one full ankle-demolishing, shin splint-inducing lap. Desperate times, indeed, but we were happy enough.
Back then, I enjoyed running so much that I would never let anything keep me from doing it. I’d bundle up and embrace sub zero temperatures. I would go for long runs in heavy, sloshy winter boots. I’d run through hallways, up and down stairs, or even (only in dire circumstances, of course) on the treadmill. The point is, nothing stopped me, and I loved every minute of it.
Fast forward a couple years (or 15, but who’s counting?) and here I am living in sunny California, where there is never a good reason not to run. The coldest, darkest winter morning here is like a day at the beach compared to winter in Massachusetts.
Yet even in this relative paradise, I still thought about skipping today’s run because it was “kind of chilly” outside. It was in the 40s.
Eventually, I was able to talk myself into going and when I got back home I sent a message to my Dad. I sent him a photo of a red track and my running-shoe clad feet sticking straight up, victorious. I was so proud of myself for overcoming such adversity! Forty degrees!
As it happens, my Dad also ran today. Back home in Massachusetts, it was a balmy 30 degrees. Compared to how cold it has been there lately (single digits or below-zero on most days), the weather actually felt warm to him, and he ended his run soaked with sweat and smiling like a madman.
What is the point of this story??
We have a choice.
(This is not my idea; read Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning for starters), but I think that our happiness depends on how we choose to respond to life and the things that happen in it.
Today, my Dad chose to be happy running in 30-degree weather, while I chose to be grouchy in 40. Happiness is a choice.
Thanks for the reminder, Dad.
Leadership Capital 