The Phone that Might Ring

I’ve spent most of the last seven years in a homicide unit. The work is often intense. There’s always pressure – on some days the vice grip squeezes harder than others – you always feel something: a horrific scene, a family’s grief, the urgency to prioritize public safety, the slow and often frustrating grind of the court system. The phone that might ring.

That was the hardest part for me. Being on-call. I tried to be stoic. I often reminded myself that I had no control if my cellphone rang. By that point someone was already dead. All I could control was my reaction. Answer the phone, be professional, and begin the investigation, an investigation that almost always takes many months, if not years.

That mindset – controlling what I could control – helped. But it was a constant challenge. My phone was always with me. In the bathroom, beside my bed, jammed in the center consul when I was driving anywhere. A day off never felt like a day off when I was on-call. I could not relax. When I was on-call my wife and daughter were on-call too. Every family decision or plan had to take into account – what if the phone rings? What if I must leave immediately and be gone for days on end?

That phone accompanied me on countless trail runs. We live in a neighbourhood surrounded by trails. The cell service is exceptional. I could be alone in the woods, confident that if someone called, I could answer. Trails runs when I was on-call were not the same. I’d stuff my running vest or backpack with a pen, paper, and a cheat-sheet to remind myself of the questions I had to ask, and the direction I had to provide, if someone called me and told me there’d been a murder.

Dozens and dozens of trail runs while on-call. Sometimes the phone rang, but I was never called out for a homicide while running. In fact, it was while running, on the trails, that I came the closest to being able to relax. The magical quality of putting one foot in front of the other again and again sometimes made me forget that I was on-call at all. That didn’t happen often, and when it did, it might just be for seconds or minutes at a time. But it did happen. Running has that power.

This was my last week in the homicide unit. I didn’t say “goodbye” to anyone. I don’t like that word. There’s a finality to it. Saying goodbye might have brought the simmering sadness I felt to the surface. I felt the weight of leaving a group of friends and colleagues who experienced the same daily pressures I did. The experiences we shared created bonds that transcend time and space.

In a few days I return to nightshifts. I know lack of sleep will affect my body and my mind. My family will be effected. My daughter has never known a dad who is gone all night and sleeps during the day. There will be adjustments for all of us.

I also know that on days when I’m tired, with brain fog that feels like a hangover, I will head to the trails. I will put one foot in front of the other. And the magical power of running will help restore me.

Striving for Mediocrity

We live in a beautiful subdivision. West coast style homes on large lots. Perfectly manicured lawns and gardens abound. Last weekend I watched someone vacuum their rock garden. (I once went 8 months without vacuuming the carpet in the basement apartment I shared with my Golden Retriever. … In my defense I did clean the bathroom weekly).

I love our neighbourhood – a perfect mix of young families and vibrant retirees. The park, the trails, the front porches, are all conducive to building friendships and creating a community.

There are rules though. We’re governed by bylaws. A long list of ‘though shall’ and ‘though shall not’ commandments dictate how our yards must look: our grass, our fences, what we park in our driveway. Breaking the rules is a roll of the dice. Maybe no one notices or cares. Or maybe someone writes a letter to the council. And they investigate. And issue a warning letter. Or a fine. Maybe things get ugly. It’s happened before.

Our home and grounds will never be the most attractive. Our lawn is not perfectly manicured. There’s moss, and dead spots from dog pee. But we try. We plant flowers, and hang baskets. We grow vegetables. We’ve trucked in yards of soil and mulch and spent thousands of dollars on cedars and shrubs. In part we do it because we enjoy it. It is satisfying and rewarding to beautify our home and our neighbourhood. But there isn’t enough money, and definitely not enough time. We’re treading water in the battle against weeds, erosion and decay. We’re striving for mediocrity. Trying to fit in, and not stand out for the wrong reasons.

I’m learning to accept that striving for mediocrity is okay. It’s not the mediocrity that matters. It’s the striving.

Before work I often run at Summit Park in Victoria. This time of year, the sun rises as I run intervals on a dirt path around a reservoir in this hidden jewel of a park that overlooks the city. This week the sunrise reminded me that our sun, and the universe, are billions of years old. They will continue for billions of years after we are gone.

In the time scale of the cosmos, you and I, and everything we do, are utterly insignificant. We could not matter less. Which, paradoxically, makes you and I, and everything we do, infinitely important. Because our lives are miracles, precious and rare. Every second matters. Everything we do counts.

We cannot and should not strive to be mediocre in all we do. Mediocre doesn’t cut it when it comes to being a husband or a father. Our careers matter too – we have a responsibility to do our best when we go to work. We owe it to our colleagues. We owe it to each other. We’re privileged to live in this country. We all play a role in keeping it working – whatever work we do.

But life is too short to define it by our careers. The universe is too big and too old not to pursue our passions. Last month I went bouldering for the first time. I’m scared of heights and I wanted to face that fear. I’ve been three times now. I love it. Being sixteen feet off the ground, knowing a fall might mean serious injury focuses my mind and body more than almost anything I’ve ever done. Talk about living in, and appreciating, the moment. It’s impossible to think about work while lunging from one hold to another while dangling in the air.

Two weeks ago I bought a guitar. I’ve never played an instrument in my life. I have zero innate musical talent. I can’t read a note. I can’t hold a tune. I’m starting from rock bottom. I’ve played that guitar every day since. I’m awful, as my neighbours will attest, because sometimes, when I get home from work, I play on the front porch or back patio. If there isn’t a noise bylaw in our neighbourhood there should be. They have every right to complain about my botched chords and terrible twanging.

If someone does complain, I’ll plead guilty and pay the fine. I’ll never become a good guitar player, or even an average one, if I don’t strive for mediocrity first.

… Now, out to the garden.

The Hard Miles

“The hardship of running somehow softens the hardship of life. Running turns the madness into music.”

Those words, from the foreword to Phil Hewitt’s ‘Outrunning the Demons’ capture the essence of this book – Life is hard. Running helps. Hewitt himself was stabbed, beaten and left for dead alongside a South African highway. He survived. Running helped.

And inspired him to collect the stories of others who, in their darkest hours, found solace in running. People shaken by grief, addiction, disease, injury, and mental illness – in the worst of their pain, running helped them survive.

As is often the case, I write this on the couch, my daughter beside me. A mini-crisis has just passed. Strawberry yogurt everywhere. “Oh no, I got some on my pajamas,” she yelled. A very big deal for her. Less so for me. I responded that if yogurt spilled all over the sofa, and covered her and painted the ceiling, it would be okay. We would fix it. We would survive a Yogurt Disaster.

As the yogurt spill played out, I looked out our front window and saw a runner, in her bright yellow vest, racing along a path near our home. I know her. A little. She runs every day. I’ve seen her running in deep snow on days when I struggled for hours just to shovel our driveway. In winter’s darkest days she is out there – in driving rain and howling winds. I don’t know her story. But I suspect she needs running. Needs it just as much as food, and water and air.

That’s how I feel too.

Not many years ago, someone very close to me was diagnosed with cancer. I was terrified she would die. It was a bad year. Stress, worry, uncertainty and fear churned within. So I ran. Signed up for a marathon and trained for it not because I wanted to. I had no time goal. The distance was no great challenge. I’d run marathons before. I entered that marathon because I needed to. A lot changed in my life that year. But running was a constant that helped see me through the worst and emerge on the other side.

The other side is a new life. A life that might be very similar to yours. A spouse, a child. A career with constant stress, modulating daily, sometimes hourly, from moderate to severe. Always present and always a roller-coaster ride.

Yesterday was Easter. My wife and I watched a day of joy unfold as our daughter hunted Easter eggs. We watched as her grandparents and aunt showered her with love, and chocolate, and placed a pink Easter bonnet on her head.

And there was sadness too. My parents are a long way away. So is my youth. I remembered Easter when I was a child. Chocolate and church and sunshine. Yesterday I wanted to hug my mom and dad and my brother and his family. And be with them and tell them how much I love them. And thank them for those wonderful memories.

One of those memories is music. “Morning has Broken.” A song for the ages. A song that captures light and life and spring and sunshine. An Easter song. So yesterday, in the midst of it all, on a bright beautiful April day, I ran to the trails and listened to Cat Stevens sing that song. I played it over and over again. I found a valley and a lone daffodil. Just the one, in a sea of grasses and weeds. And I thought about it all. And was thankful for everything. Joy and youth, light and life, family and friends. Running and hard miles.

Every Second

“Travel is medicine. It resensitizes. It opens you up … It forces your childlike self back into action.”

… the opening lines of ‘To Shake the Sleeping Self’ by Jedidiah Jenkins One paragraph in I knew I’d love the book. I didn’t just read those lines. I absorbed them. They shook me. Reminded me of far away places and long-ago adventures. Sunshine and excitement. Relaxation and restoration. One paragraph in, Jedidiah shook this sleeping reader.

Words that resonated, in part, because, for a year now, we have been unable to travel. Robbed of the pleasure of planning that next trip. Of exploring a part of the world we’ve never seen before. Or returning somewhere meaningful and magical. Somewhere guaranteed to restore the soul.

Yesterday we searched closer to home – driving four kilometers, instead of flying four thousand. Low budget travel – a couple cookies, a thermos of coffee, and a bag of stale breads for the seagulls.

We needed to be away from home, together. Away from to-do lists that never ended. Away from the television. Away from minor tensions and an epic tantrum.

We needed air and water and trees.

We found them. Along a shoreline so close to home we had taken it for granted for years. Never stopped. Never explored.

Here’s something else Jedidiah Jenkins wrote: “When you are a kid, everything is new. You don’t know what’s under each rock … So, you look. You notice … Every second has value.”

The essence of mindfulness. Finding value in every second. That does not mean every moment is pleasant or welcome. Every moment just is.

Every day I struggle with being present in the moment.

It’s worse than that. Every moment I struggle with being present in the moment. My mind races. Five minutes ahead, five hours ahead, five years ago.

Five. Our daughter is five. Yesterday, at the beach, she found value in every second. She didn’t just feed the seagulls. She made seashell sandwiches, fan-shaped shells, filled with water and layers and layers of bread. The seagulls swooped in – fighting, clamoring, the winner soaring away with every morsel in its beak. The losers squawking for more.

We discovered secret passages – pathways through dense trees. We scampered up rocks and across logs. We saw a sad face carved in stone, and memorial plaques mounted on boulders. Plaques that showed that this had been a special place to others. They too had come here and valued every second.

I’m still reading Jedidiah’s book. He’s in South America now, nearing the end of a bike trip that began in Oregon. A pre-Covid trip. I envy him – envy his travels, his insights and his talent.

Soon after I met my wife, she travelled to South America. She flew in rickety planes, ate great food, and experienced people and places that I – that all of us – can only dream of now.

Places and trips that happened years ago. Places and trips that might happen again, depending on vaccines and variants.

In the meantime, I’m thankful that Jedidiah and my daughter remind me that every second has value.

More Things Matter Less

Two people I didn’t know died recently.

I learned about them, their lives, and their deaths, from grieving friends.

Their deaths were unexpected. One from a chronic health problem that deteriorated rapidly. The second also “natural,” but without warning. Both had young children. Both left grieving families, friends, and colleagues

Natural causes. A phrase we’ve all heard thousands of times. Two words that don’t convey the pain death leaves in its wake.

I began to think of death a little differently not that long ago. It was something I heard on a show that has become a big part of my life. The Rich Roll Podcast. Rich is an ultra-endurance athlete, a vegan and an inspiration. He challenges himself and his listeners to be their best selves. His guests share their lives with Rich because he’s authentic, curious, and humble. He radiates warmth and trust. He’s become a fixture in my life. Like a friend I’ve never met. Although I did meet him once. Travelled across the country to hear him speak and met him briefly afterward. Bought a t-shirt which I still have. Very worn, and very torn, I still wear it proudly.

A year or so ago, one of Rich’s guests spoke about aging, and longevity – with a focus on people around my age – forty and fifty. Not old, but not young.

The guest said something like ‘Nature doesn’t need you anymore.’

Thought provoking words. Not spiritual, not healing, not sugar-coated. Evolutionary. We are all animals. Dying is wired into our DNA. And by our forties and fifties, most of us have had children, and aren’t going to have any more. Nature – cruel, merciless – doesn’t need us.

A lot of things don’t need us.

Work doesn’t need us. If we are lucky, we have careers in which we are fortunate enough to make contributions – to our co-workers, to our organizations, to the world at large. But, at work, each of us is completely replaceable, regardless of what we do. You and I might be missed. But we’re not necessary. Not essential. We’d be replaced and the machine would grind on.

Things don’t need us. We surround ourselves with so much that is non-essential. So much plastic, so much made overseas, so much packaging. Inert crap, that adds little value to our lives.

The news cycle doesn’t need us. It gorges, spits out, and moves on. Trump today – gone tomorrow.

The planet doesn’t need us – alive, we drain it, suck out its exhaustible resources. Every second we breathe, we’re part of the problem. Dead, we return to the earth. Giving a little bit back after all we’ve taken.

But if a lot of things don’t need us – a lot of people do.

Our communities. Our friends. Our families. Our children.

Not knowing that I’m writing this – never knowing anything that I write about – my five-year old daughter just started talking about death. She said to me “I bet you die right now.” I reassured her and told her that wasn’t going to happen.

I did not tell her that nature doesn’t need her father anymore. She’s five. She still needs her dad. Needs to cover my face in shaving cream like she did a couple of hours ago. Needs to paint my nails pink and spray me with perfume like she did right after that.

And I need her. For as long as I can hang on.

Which is another reason Rich Roll has become a mentor and inspiration. Nature is merciless. Accidents happen. Diseases ravage. Aging never stops, and always takes a toll. But there are things we can do that increase our chances – increase our chances to live longer, be healthier, and find contentment in whatever path or paths we choose along the way.

More things matter less than ever to me now. Things I used to be passionate about like baseball and politics. Not that long ago they were central to my life, now they exist on the periphery.

But if many things matter less, then a few things matter more. My family. My friends. Seeking rewarding work – not working for rewards. Reading. Writing. Running.

And living a life with pink nails, and a shaving cream head.

Getting Back

I travelled for work this week.

Long hours. Little sleep.

No reading. No running. No family.

Mentally drained. Physically weary.

I work with good people. Dedicated. Smart. Engaged. Kind. If I must be away from home, those are the people I want to be with.

Still, it felt great getting back.

Hugging my wife and daughter. Sleeping in my own bed. Waking up, drinking coffee, and reading.

Returning to normal, after a few days of not normal.

Not normal meant five days without running. Instead, I traded running for sleep.

That doesn’t happen often.

So, it felt wonderful to lace up my trail shoes this morning. A clear sky. A cold day. Well below zero with a biting wind.

To run with no other purpose than to run. To move my legs, inflate my lungs, and clear my head. To appreciate the beauty of the forest along the path I’ve run a hundred times before. An isolated path with traces of snow, alongside a stream of icy water. The crunch of frozen dirt underfoot. No people, no phone calls, no stress. Blue Rodeo in my earbuds. More than a band. Poets and philosophers of life and death, joy and pain. Songs about navigating back to normal when your world strays.

A one hour run. Never fast. Or slow. Just a run. A little bit of uphill, a little bit of downhill.

Like most of our days, most of the time. Normal. A bit good, a bit bad. Usually somewhere in between.

We are all desperate for normal now, almost a year into Covid. Lockdowns and masks. No travel. Distant family. Those damn arrows on the floors in grocery stores. I hate those arrows.

Anger at those who break the rules. The temptation to break them ourselves – to ignore the arrows, visit a friend, travel.

A virus jolted us out of normal. We took too much for granted for too long. And now we wait for vaccines, and double-mask our faces, and challenge ourselves to be more patient than we’ve ever been in our lives.

If only it was as easy as a run, along a trail, on a cold winter’s day.

What You Have Endured

I ran 12k hard this morning. I finished gasping for breath, tasting blood in my lungs, with legs that felt like they were encased in cement.

It hurt.

Which was entirely the point because I was racing. A virtual race. The only kind of race our Covid world allows. No other runners, no spectators, no finish line. Just me and my GPS watch.

If I had not signed up, this morning’s run would not have hurt. I would not have pushed myself to run maximum effort for nearly an hour. I would not have subjected myself to voluntary pain.

I would not have relaxed.

Hurt and relaxation. Essential elements of running hard. Essential elements of living.

Running brought a good friend into my life years ago. An accomplished runner and even better person. I was Luke, and he was my Yoda. He was smooth, I was ungainly. He ran fast effortlessly – I did not. I equated speed with pain – my body clenching, tightening, straining. My friend helped me understand that less was more, that letting go, breathing, unclenching, loosening, relaxing, allowed me to run smoother, stronger and ultimately, faster. It was both counterintuitive and made perfect sense. And it worked. My best runs, my fastest times were under his tutelage.

I thought of him today when I ran, struggling for speed, fighting to hold the pace. Hurting and relaxing. Relaxing and hurting.

Running is a wonderful metaphor for life, but not a perfect one. When running hurts too much, I can choose to slow down – even stop – I can make the pain go away.

We can’t do that in life.

There is pain. For all of us. Pain that comes and goes, pain that ebbs and flows. Chronic pain. Pain in our bodies. Pain in our souls. Fleeting pain. Pain that heals.

Pain that reveals.

Pain reveals our weaknesses, in our bodies, in our psyches.

Pain hurts.

So relax.

Breathe. Walk. Meditate. Read. Listen. Sing. Hug. Pray. Love. Share. Give.

And then – stop relaxing. Do things that hurt. Run hard. Lift weights. Cycle until your legs are on fire. Take a cold shower. Hold your breath until your lungs explode. Do something that makes you want to scream – do it because you can – do it because you control the pain.

Do it because when you choose to suffer – you can relax. It is within you. It is in your breath. It is in every fiber of your body. Pain and peace are not opposites. They are not mutually exclusive. They are in all of us, always. Co-existing. Waxing. Waning. Teaching.

Pain teaches us to relish its absence. This afternoon my daughter and I played in a park, walked in our neighbourhood, and saw some of her friends. All those moments were just a little more precious because hours before I ran hard and made myself hurt.

And then the hurting stopped. Not long after my run, my body felt better. My lungs didn’t taste like blood anymore. Instead, it was as if my airway had tripled in size and oxygen was being pumped into my chest. The air I was breathing was cleaner, fresher, more potent. My legs stopped hurting. Instead, they ached – good aching – the aching that only comes from pushing past comfort. Aching that satisfies.

Relaxing in the midst of pain teaches us … teaches us that we can relax in the midst of pain. We don’t have to enjoy pain. We can hate the pain. But we can co-exist with it. We can conquer it. The next time it happens to you, you will emerge on the other side. Maybe scarred, maybe scared, maybe aching everywhere. But you will be stronger, better, and more equipped to deal with the next time. And all the good moments – joy, fun, normalcy, Netflix, will be that much sweeter, for what you have endured.

The Constants

I saw some pictures recently which jolted me back a decade. Back to where I was – both literally and figuratively. Photos from a fun and important weekend. Photos filled with people who aren’t in my life anymore.

Much has changed in those ten years. Big changes. A new family. A new home. A new life.

Some important things have not changed. Reading and running are constants.

Not just reading – but my favourite authors. Writers I have been reading for many years. Writers whose brilliance and insights add richness to my life. Writers whose words help make me who I am.

Those authors include David Mitchell and James Lee Burke. Each has a new novel out. Buying those books brought me joy comparable to the proverbial kid on Christmas morning. I wanted to dive into them.

Dive slowly. I hate the idea of ‘page-turners.’ The best books should be savoured, not raced through. Every page turned is sad, because it is one page closer to the end of something special. I take my time – underlining and starring my favourite passages – beautifully turned phrases, and insights into life.

David Mitchell creates worlds that remind me that life is mysterious and filled with connections both seen and unseen which bind us all.

James Lee Burke captures the horrors of my profession, the complexity of humanity and our spiritual nature.

I’ve never meet either man, but they are as much a part of my life as my best friends. Constants.

Like running. The routes have changed but the runs continue.

A decade-ago I ran along the ocean daily. No more. Now on my daily runs I hit the trails. Roots and rocks. Oceans of trees, streams of water.

I love it all the same. My favourite run now is just a few minutes from home. It’s quiet and calm. A challenging uphill that is neither too steep nor too long and rewards every repetition with beautiful vistas. It is the running place where I find the greatest beauty and the greatest fulfillment. Like my favourite novels, I never want those runs to end.

Today it ended very well. I descended from the hills through our neighbourhood. Coming towards me my wife was in the midst of her own run, pushing our daughter in her stroller. We met up, and switched up – she raced ahead while I ran with our daughter, who, minutes later, asked me to stop at a community book box – one of those ‘take a book – leave a book’ community libraries that make all our lives a little better.

I opened the box and my daughter’s, attention focused on colourful covers – with pinks and purples trumping all else. I pulled out the pinkest and purpliest for her – I Heart Vegas. Needless to say, it is not exactly a children’s book. But a book she wanted nonetheless, as a present for her mom. We hid it underneath the stroller and snuck it into the house where she placed it on my wife’s nightstand, so proud of the gift she was going to give. So proud of what she called, “the fanciest book I ever saw.”

Ten years. It seems like so long ago. It seems like yesterday.

Life changes. None of us knows what’s in store up the next hill or around the next corner.

The constants in our lives help us navigate those changes, enjoy the journey and prepare us for those unexpected moments. I’ll never read I Heart Vegas. But I’ll treasure it forever.

The Best Thing Ever

Our dog Maggie is dying. Slowly. She’s in enough pain to require expensive medication, and the medication works so well we cannot put her down. Obsessed with food, she spends her waking hours stalking my wife, begging for snacks and sniffing the floors for non-existent crumbs. A dozen times a day she barks at the back door. We let her outside. A minute later, she yelps to get back in. I should feel charitable towards her. I should be cherishing my last weeks and final days with a loyal companion. But I’m not. I want her gone because life will be much less stressful without her. Her presence – her noise – grates on my nerves. Unceasingly.

My wife is kind, gentle and empathetic. Maggie entered her life when we met. She showered her with love and kindness. Maggie is more her dog than mine now. She has been for a long time. She loves Maggie more than I do. She’ll miss her more than I will. Where I see a dog hanging onto life by a string, she sees a beautiful old girl still desperate for a daily walk and tasty treats.

I’m not proud of how I feel about Maggie. But it is the truth.

Here’s another truth. Silence is rare and I crave it. We are blessed to have a vibrant, healthy, energetic daughter. She brings me joy every day. Not just joy. Pride. Wonder. Fulfillment. Meaning.

And exhaustion. Life is full-on from the moment she wakes up until the second her head hits the pillow. Talking, moving, dancing, playing, showing, asking, telling, smiling, teasing, laughing. And the opposite. Yelling and screaming. Sometimes throwing and hitting. She is only four. The world is opening to her. In all its wonder. And in all its reality. She knows Maggie will die soon. Last night she asked if the needle will hurt when the vet injects Maggie to put her to sleep. That’s a tough question to answer.

Like every parent, I am privileged to experience the world anew through her eyes. Like most dads with daughters, I get to experience a different kind of childhood than my own. Pinks and purples, princesses and unicorns. All those things colour my life.

As does watching her with other children as she learns to navigate relationships and personalities. Loud boys, silent girls. Loud girls, silent boys. The discovery that some kids are friends, most are acquaintances and a handful must be either avoided, or, as a last resort, confronted, because aggressiveness and cruelty already define them.

As I age – as I watch my daughter age – I’m more comfortable with what defines us both. I’m an introvert. Years ago, I would have balked at that description. Been embarrassed by it. Pretended it was not the case. Socialized when I would rather have been home. No more. It is who I am. It is what I am. It is why I need silence to recharge. I need to read. To write. To run. My website is readerwritterrunner.com for a reason.

I’m reading Susan Cain’s book, Quiet – The Power of Introverts in a World that Can’t Stop Talking. It helps me better understand myself. Reinforces that it is okay for me to be me. And helps me understand my daughter. She responds to stimulus intensely. She always has. We saw it when she was a preemie, in an incubator in intensive care, constant movement when all the other infants lay still. It’s the same today – she feels deeply and reacts passionately to the good, the bad, and everything in between. The research suggests that, given her nature, she is almost certain to grow up to be an introvert herself.

Maybe a different kind of introvert than her dad. Quiet, stillness and serenity are not on her radar. Life is a maelstrom of activity and feelings.

I love that maelstrom. It is the best thing ever. And among the most challenging things ever. To remain myself in the commotion. And to recognize, that, even within the whirlwind of life there are always – always – moments where calm, silence and quiet prevail.

Despair Soup

Big things crush small things.

Covid ravages nations.

A horrific death in Minnesota reverberates around the globe.

Really big things. Really bad things.

Overwhelming things.

It feels selfish to miss small things amidst so much death and suffering.

Too much death and suffering.

But I miss them. I miss them desperately. Baseball. My daughter’s dance class. Restaurants. The Tour de France – incredible athletes and stunning scenery. I gorge on the Tour for three weeks every July. But not this year.

It all makes for one giant recipe for despair. Despair Soup. Take one horrific virus – add a divided society – strip away the simple pleasures – simmer for months – await the explosion.

Maybe it will not explode. There might be a vaccine. We may all come together instead of pulling apart. But look south. To America. A country ripping itself apart. A country defined by left vs. right. Republican vs. Democrat. A global superpower coming apart at the seams.

Big things crush small things.

But not always. Sometimes small things win.

Running is a small thing.

Covid can cancel races but it can’t stop runners from running. That’s what we do. It’s our answer for everything. Feeling down? Go for a run. Feeling good? Great day to run. Body sore? Run to recover. Tired? Run to wake up. Can’t sleep? Run for exhaustion.

Overwhelmed by the world? Run.

That’s what I did on a quiet morning when the sun made a rare appearance defying the dark clouds and rain which have settled over us for months.

I can’t say I was at peace when I began that run. Work stress. Life stress. World stress.

But I laced up a new pair of trail shoes and headed uphill. No music. No watch. Just a trail with roots and rocks and mud and horse manure. Switchbacks and inclines. Towering evergreens. Warning signs about bears in the area – because big bears crush scrawny runners.

But I didn’t see any bears. And not many people. Just me and my thoughts. And my no thoughts. Straining uphill. Testing my legs and my lungs. Then getting to the top and resting my legs and my lungs. Just enjoying the view. A beautiful view. A small moment of peace. A big view.

Big things crush small things. But sometimes small things win.

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