It was the most untimely Chicago blizzard I’d known of in years. The Shamrock Shuffle of 2009 which would be my first year of a now much anticipated tradition. Wowza…nine years sure did go by at a speed I never truly anticipated possible.
And it turns, you know…the universe as we know and hold it in this precise moment in time. Life is ever changing and fluid; unveiling itself to me in new ways. The more I learn, the more I realize I will be a forever student of this complex life space in which I occupy for the brief time I am fortunate enough to be here.
There I was…the very last, lone runner dashing my way through the now empty starting corrals of the race. As I dashed by, promising the operations workers I would catch up to the other runners and needed to make the race. Go ahead…they waved me on as they deconstructed the last holding corrals.
I made my way a quarter mile down Columbus Drive and my feet were already drenched in frozen Chicago April slush. Texts were pouring in by now of all my friends who dropped out of the race due to the blizzard advising, ‘they hoped I wore my snow boots.’ I was simply grateful that I had managed to get there and make the race.
I ran with soaked, frozen toes; heel toe, heel toe as I watched my breath crystalizing in front of me. The first person I caught up to appeared to be an 80 plus year old man whose run was mostly like a slumped, slow scooch. A car drove carefully behind him, I’m assuming to break his fall in the case of a slip or fall. His body appeared frail and hunched over. But there he was…running this 8K in a blizzard that grounded young, healthy men scheduled to run the race with me. He was out there…scooching his sweet little heart out. It was a defining moment in that season of my life. I was as broken as I had ever imagined myself being. This was my first race and I was determined to finish it. As I passed that dear old man, my soul was filled with gratefulness. His mere presence had inspired me to push past all the volatile, emotional circumstance that felt so pronounced and significant during that time in my life. It reminded me that I alone held the power of choice to decide whether I’d spend my life truly living or slowly stumbling my way through the shadows of life. You know, the back alley ways we often tuck ourselves away in and live narratively from. Well, I chose the former…as often and mindfully as I can manage. After all, this isn’t a dress rehearsal and no matter how shitty the first half seems to have gone…it goes on.
I wish I could report the entire run was as amazing as that first quarter mile. I went on to accidentally trip a seasoned runner and watch him fall to the cold, slushy frozen ground right in front of me. I reached for him to offer help and was answered with angry F bombs, then I made the decision to just keep running. So that happened too… life after all, has both ups and downs. Literally.
And through the freezing Chicago thunder snow…I ran. I felt alive in a way I had never previously known. It was the beginning of one of the greatest love affairs of my life…running. And I ran. Chicago’s streets were brilliant and sparkly. Neighbors I may never meet cheered us on and screamed in celebration that we were all there and a part of this ball of amazingness.
As I turned the corner towards the last uphill of Michigan Ave towards the finish line, I spotted a hipster chick standing atop the planter box in the middle of the street. She was holding up a neon orange sign that read “Do Epic Shit.” My soul fell alive and acquiesced to her proclamation. I believe the universe sent that message directly to me. And in that moment…I answered back, “Okay…I’m going to try like hell.”
I arrived at the finish line and raised my arms as I exhaled and felt the elation of this ‘extreme spor’t like first race finish. I looked around to immediately notice the other details I’d overlooked in addition to the starting time…everyone had someone there at the finish corral. There was a sea of signs reading, run mom, I’m so proud of you, and the like.
I had not invited anyone to come and celebrate this with me. Nor had I anyone to invite as my sweet mini’s were weekending with the ex. One of those afore mentioned circumstances that had become the unbelievable truth of my new normal. I stood there fighting back the tears that welled up in my soul. I was acutely aware of my alone ness. I began to walk the mile home and people watched along the way. I had myself a decent cry. I thought of that precious older man who had the tenacity to scooch his way through almost 5 miles in this storm. I thought to myself…that was epic.
I downloaded with my therapist the following Monday and cried about feeling I had no one to be there for me, and how that was the source of great sadness of which I could do nothing to fix or change.
He raised his rumpled eyebrow and said without missing a beat… “That sounds like living to me.” I smiled and realized I was like that precious man sooching my way through the sea of shit in front of me. And I ran… and it felt like heaven was raising up the earth to meet my feet beneath me. I was doing epic shit.
I can still envision her orange hand written note to me. I’ve wanted and dared to test the limits of what I’ve believed possible in my life ever since. The days I find myself wanting to crawl through life…I give myself permission to start there with the knowing that a scooch can get you where you need to go just as well as a run.
Let’s be amazing…shall we. It is why we’re here, after all. Not to merely exist in the shadows of ourselves. We are created to be brilliant…to be epic. Do Epic Shit.