Days.

I went for a run yesterday. There is a little over a four mile loop around my house that goes along the ocean. Every time I do it, I walk away afterward with this sense of floating spirituality. Half way through the run yesterday, I was tired and almost started walking. Almost. 

I do a lot of visualization when I run. Running has never come easy to me. Growing up, in elementary school when we had to do “the mile” in gym for our physical fitness test, it was a day I dreaded like no other. I couldn’t, for the life of me, imagine how they could make children run that far. It seemed like cruel and unusual punishment. Needless to say, I could never run the whole thing without stopping.

 Later in high school, I became slightly more athletically ambitious and played lacrosse. Still, running wasn’t ever something I “enjoyed” but it was easier for me mentally than having to endure “the mile” in elementary school. My freshman year in college, a friend of mine wanted to try out for the crew team and asked me to go with her to tryouts. I had zero intent of actually being on the team. I was just along for the ride to make my friend feel less uncomfortable at tryouts. When we showed up we were in the company of 100+ other girls. The coach told us they didn’t cut people from the team, people cut themselves from the team. What I didn’t understand that meant was “these tryouts are going to kick your ass.” 

The first day was HARD. But, I loved it. The second day, only half the people showed up. The third day, another half of those showed up, including my friend who had urged me to go with her. By the end of the week, there were roughly 25 girls still standing and that group of women became incredibly close that year. My life was consumed with the crew team and my teammates.

Participating in collegiate athletics is pretty much a full time job. That, in conjunction with working two work study jobs and being my first semester in college which came with “social activities” gave me little academic motivation. All of this helped me earn a stellar 1.5 GPA my first semester.

Not one of my proudest moments. 

I had to petition the University to be able to return to school the second semester. Needless to say, my parents were not thrilled. For the first time in my life, I was ashamed of myself. I remember over that winter break visiting my grandparents down in Florida. We had gone out to dinner one night, and after we were finished, my grandfather, whom I was incredibly close with, and I were waiting outside the restaurant for my mom and grandmother. I don’t really remember how the conversation started, but it went something like this:

“Papou, I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, you can do it. You just got to dig in.”

It wasn’t what he said, it was how he said it and knowing he loved me despite my major setback. The University did let me come back in the spring. And I did what he said and I “dug in”. I remember listening to Queen’s “Under Pressure” on repeat when walking around campus to help me keep focus. I ended up getting a 3.8 GPA second semester – a bit of an improvement.

I’ve written about my grandfather and what a remarkable man he was. He was humble, but with an incredible drive. An incredible, incredible drive.  He had his exercises he did every day. Days before he passed at the age of 90, my mom and I had an appointment with him to see doctors down at Mass General. The day before his appointment, we stayed at his home so we could leave early in the morning. Along with being humble, he was also a proud man. We knew things were serious when he finally relinquished to using a walker to get around.   

A moment I will never forget was being in the hallway of his home with him and his walker. His goal was to get himself to the end of the hallway where his workout equipment was to do his strength exercises.

 “Papou, I can grab them for you?” offering so he wouldn’t have to push himself so hard.

“No.” Is all he said quietly, yet firmly.

And he pushed. He pushed himself when he didn’t have to. 

Painstakingly, I watched him. I watched his 90 year old body that had been through a lifetime of ups, downs and more than I probably will ever know get to the end of that hallway. With no help from me.

 My 90 year old grandfather who was days from leaving this life was still pushing himself even when he didn’t have to. No one would have blamed him if he gave up. But he did it. And did it for no one else, but himself.

 And yesterday on my run, halfway through when I was tired and felt like walking, I dug in, I thought of him in that hallway with his walker at 90 years old.

 And I finished my run.