What You Get is What You See

"What do you see?"

I turned to the group of runners peering into a large, mile-long, 100-foot deep gash in the earth adjacent to our running route along the Los Angeles River in Long Beach. Silence. I prompted them to throw out their answers.

"A big *#@!ing hole." Good start. Anything else? "A scar. Nothing. A grave."

"Anything else?" I did not want to answer my own question unless I had to.

The youngest runner (why was I so surprised by that?) gave me what I was looking for . . . "An Egyptian Queen, floating on a gold colored barge, slowly floating down the Nile."

I watched the other runners as he spoke up, and saw all their faces soften, open, and the group started nodding. They did not have to say it, the youngster had given them all a valuable lesson.

It took about two, maybe three years, but that "big *#@!ing hole" is now one of my favorite two miles that I run. When I get there, I'm three miles into my run, or have three to five miles to go on my way home. I'm in full flow.

I run the narrow dirt path alongside the tranquil water-filled channel and drink in the energy of life—an explosion of wild flowers, tall reeds, elegant Cranes, Blue Herons, Snowy Egrets, and, each week, more and more birds whose names I don't know. Rabbits, butterflies, and in the early, misty mornings, coyotes.

What is it that transformed that "scar" into a burst of wilderness that replenishes, invigorates, and inspires me each time I run in it (in it, not through it)? Vision—the ability to look at what is, to see what can be, and then living into that. Action—the ability to create the transition from the one to the other. Commitment—the willingness to embrace and reconfigure challenges that come up. Whatever they are. Accountability—the fearless and consistent tracking of action through to successful completion.

One person's "big *#@!ing hole" is another's wilderness-refuge-in-waiting. Whether it's in relationship, at work, your initial training run in preparation for a first ever 5k, or at the base of a steep hill at mile 23, I promise you this: It's never a case of "What you see is what you get."

What you get, rather, is what you choose to see.

Happy trails!

For Crying Out Loud

It's not unusual to see tears at the finish line of a marathon. Tears of joy, pain, relief, laughter. However many shades of tears there are, they have probably all been spilled at 26.2. I've certainly shed my fair share of finish line tears.

But starting line tears? For me, this was a new experience—and one I recently had at the San Diego Rock N Roll Marathon.

Don't tell anyone, but I had purchased a last-minute bib from a friend of mine who was not able to run. Not having run the even t before, I surfed around the web and read intimidating posts about difficulty accessing the start line, challenges with parking, and a course with numerous challenges: freeway surfaces, big camber for several miles, noise of the every-mile bands.

I had no concerns about what my run would be like—I know I get to choose that for the most part. But I was concerned about getting to the start line in time, so I left wonderfully early and arrived two hours before the race was due to begin. In fact, I left Del Mar (about ten miles away) an hour earlier than my running partners Todd and Tiffany left Long Beach (about 120 miles away!).

It proved to be the best choice I've made in a long time.

What I experienced was akin to the night my daughter was born. Sure, when I arrived, I had my pick of the bananas, electrolyte drinks, and unused portapotties. But I'm talking about something else.

I'm talking about not just seeing, but feeling the day build. Individuals and groups arriving. Some in silence as they stretched, some laughing. Nervous laughter, bold laughter, playful laughter. I positioned myself by the Elite Runners corral, and watched as the wheel chair athlete's arrived. I saw rigorous independence as each one moved out of their day use chairs and into their competition machines."

The Marine band arrived, including two musicians who would be running the event. I saw strong young men and women with gleaming eyes and uniforms. I felt the vibrant energy of the marathon building, an affirmation of life, and thought of war, an affirmation of death. To have both feelings inside of me at once stretched my heart further.

And then the elite runners arrived, led by a group of tiny African men. They were small in physical stature, but that was all. These men are lions. I could feel it, see it, sense it. I thought of the history of Africa. As an Englishman, now living in the United States, I am doubly aware of the impact of imperialism, centuries of ruthless exploitation, and slavery on the entire continent of Africa.

And as I looked at these men, I had a visceral sense of their power. The power that would carry them across the finish line when I was only half-way done. The authentic power that lives in any being who is doing what he loves the most. That gives himself and his god the clearest form of expression through devoted action.

And in that moment, as I stand in the wake of the quiet, fierce, powerful humility of these men, I realized that whatever it was that my ancestors had sought to plunder from Africa and its people, they never found it. It is not something that can ever be taken; it is something that can only be given.

And I cried. For Africa, for its people, for the errors of its subjugators, and for the rivers of blood that have flowed across the centuries. For forgiveness.

And then I cried for joy. For running; for runners; for the way that our sport can transcend history and brings us together into the now. This event. This stride. This breath.

Apparently I ran the slowest marathon I have ever run that day, four hours and fifty minutes. I did not know at the time, because I had no watch. And every timeless step of the way, even the ones that hurt, I continued to bask in the simple beauty of our shared humanity as runners.

That day I truly experienced my own dream come alive. Much sweeter than running longer, or stronger, my answered prayer is to run deeper. Can I get an "Amen"?

Happy trails.