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The small orange triangle with its white exclamation point blinked at the top of the screen. I flipped off the computer and went to bed last night with a sense of foreboding. Our marathon training class had an 18-miler scheduled for today, and as their coach I worried that the weather would make a tough one even tougher. I worried about damp bodies and damp spirits, hypothermia and discouragement.
I should have known by now that the spirits of runners are not that fragile. The meeting room overflowed with energy as we reviewed the route, gave last-minute tips, and cheered one another out the door. Starting up the hill, veterans were telling stories from last year, when the 26-mile training run was held in the heaviest, most unrelenting rainstorm in recent western Montana memory. Those stories touched off a blend of terror and inspiration in the newer members. How could anyone, they wondered, hold up for 6, 7, 8 hours of exertion under stresses like those?
The stories faded as the hill steepened. Even at a conservative training pace, oxygen was in short supply and the legs cried for more. Runners fell easily into groups of pace mates, and the cadence of footfalls provided a gentle drumbeat driving us forward. As the miles passed, we began to notice something weird about the weather. It was 40 degrees. Nary a drop, nary a flake, nary a gust had emerged from the morning sky. What happened to the orange triangle with its starling white exclamation point?
We trotted down the valley like a parade of laundry baskets: jackets and turtlenecks wrapped around our waists; hats in one hand, gloves in the other. A friend serving water at Mile 6 offered to take the extra clothing back to town. The clouds dispersed to reveal patches of blue and a warming sun.
The post-run chatter over bananas and cookies, grapes and gummi bears was vibrant with goals accomplished and barriers overcome. From time to time, someone would remark, "What did happen to the weather? It was perfect for a long run."
Winter returned later in the day. It snowed and sleeted, darkened and blew. Sitting in front of a fire, cozy and secure, I am enjoying the view. I am also reflecting on the lesson taught (but not learned) so many times before, and repeated today. We do not know what is coming next. We can check the forecast and dress for the occasion, but losing sleep with worry is a waste of precious energy.
I am grateful for the way it turned out today. I would have been grateful had it turned out differently, as it did with the marathon rainstorm a year ago. I am grateful for a community of fellow runners who come out, on fair days and foul, to support one another on the journey toward an ambitious goal. In that context, every cloud boasts a silver lining of shared effort and shared reward.
What helps you to get up and get out on those days when the inner or outer storm warning urges you to stay inside?
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