Written May 30, 2025
Hello Dear Readers,
The last few weeks, I’ve been running like a champ—clocking solid times, striding with purpose, and imagining myself as the hero of my own underdog sports movie. This morning, though, the sky had other ideas. I was fired up for a speedy 5km, but Nashville had slipped into one of its gray, brooding moods again.
Storms and surprise rain showers have been far more clingy this year than last. Thunderstorms seem to schedule themselves precisely during my outdoor activities, as if the weather has a grudge against cardio and lawn maintenance. Just last Sunday, rain washed out our planned Sunday walk with my wife, and I’m still a little bitter about it.
Still, I usually run through rain unless lightning is doing jazz hands in the sky. Today was no different. The skies were just moody, not angry, so I laced up. It wasn’t raining when I started—but, of course, a few minutes in, it let loose. No thunder, though, so I kept running like a soggy but determined penguin.
Then, during a quick water break, I paused my running app. Classic move. But I forgot to restart it. The rain, apparently not satisfied with merely soaking me, also decided to sabotage my tech game. By the time I noticed, I had already run quite a bit—off the grid. I was more annoyed than I care to admit, not just at the weather, but at myself.
And just when I thought I’d had my quota of morning mayhem, cue the canine cameo: a golden retriever, furious at the sight of me running (again), snapped free from the little girl walking him and charged. That’s right—a golden retriever. Not a Doberman. Not a Rottweiler. Lassie’s less-friendly cousin. Apparently, I’m his chosen nemesis in the neighborhood.
When I asked my wife if the dog always did this, she blinked and said, “He’s never done it to me while I was running before.” Fantastic. So this retriever has made me his personal vendetta. I didn’t fancy a sprint-fueled showdown, so I slowed down and zigzagged my way to safety, which tanked my pace at that corner.
All in all, today’s run was a mess. Wet, tech-glitched, dog-stalked. My precious pace time was wrecked. But then I realized—I still ran. I did the thing. Sure, I didn’t set a personal record, but I moved, I sweated, and I kept my promise to myself.
I’ve been focusing a lot lately on staying healthy—not just for fitness goals or vanity metrics, but for deeper reasons. My kidneys need care. My brain needs healing. So I hydrate religiously, eat mindfully, train my muscles, and yes, even run through rogue weather and canine ambushes.
My wife says we become what we focus on. If I focus too much on the mishaps, the missed pace, the muddy shoes—I’ll become the guy who grumbles through life. But if I pay attention to progress, to the act of showing up despite setbacks, then maybe I will become something better. She’s probably right. (She usually is.)
Today, I didn’t hit my target pace. But I ran. I moved through the rain. I dodged a golden missile. And I even threw in some bonus distance to make up for the paused app.
At the end of the day, I did the work my body needed. And that, my friends, is what counts.