Calculated Risk

[This post developed as I ran my regular 7-mile route around Worcester amid fallen and falling snow this morning, my first foray into a genuine winter storm during this year's training for the Boston Marathon. Musings such as these help the miles to pass more quickly.]

I've been running year-round for a decade now, and have spent all of that time in regions prone to harsh and snowy winters. Through a bit of research and a great deal of experience, I consider myself a relative expert when it comes to winter training. Sunny, clear, and calm days– no matter how cold– are often more bearable than cloudy and blustery ones. Black ice is hard to see in the pre-dawn darkness, but I've learned that it tends to lurk at the side of the road, where liquid usually collects. I think my body has even figured out how to make fine-tuned adjustments to my stride and center of gravity in response to the degree of traction my feet find on various types of snow– hard-packed, soft powder, damp and slushy.

College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA
January 2011
(As slippery as it is pretty)

Though I typically step out the door for each winter run with a measure of boldness and confidence, I'm also rather fastidious about accounting for various risks and dangers. What layers do I need, given the temperature and wind chill? Where was that stretch of icy runoff last week... and has there been enough sun and warmth enough to melt it? That streetlight was unlit the other morning... better be careful around that bend if it hasn't been fixed yet. Yet, despite all of my experience, skill, and preparation, Mother Nature always finds a way of surprising me, as she did last week with a patch of black ice. Consequently, every winter, there's a run that soon becomes a blatantly stupid exercise (no pun intended), an occasion when I should have recognized a situation that exceeded the limits of personal ability and common sense, and simply stayed inside to enjoy the hidden blessing of an extra day of rest.

On the other hand, those ill-advised training runs have become war stories that I proudly trade with fellow winter warriors at the spring races for which we all train through the dark, cold weeks between the two equinoxes. Several years ago, I set out from Dartmouth's campus for a long run on rolling farm roads across the river in Vermont, knowing that light flurries were forecast. On my way back, with six miles to go, the light flurries turned into heavy sleet. Last winter, taking advantage of a snow day, I set out early anyway, hoping to beat the commuter traffic. Unfortunately, I also beat the city's snow clearance fleet. What should have been a festive jog through a wintry wonderland became a speed workout as marauding plows chased me all over the city. This year, I'm trying to anticipate when conditions are ripe for a "stupid run" that would be best avoided, and thus deny Mother Nature the pleasure of proving me a fool for heading out against my better judgment.

Forgive me if you're still looking for the point of this reflection... I have a penchant for imagery-rich narratives that (I hope) contextualize a given idea that I'm trying to convey. Put simply, while my annual "stupid run" is often instantly visible in hindsight (or in the midst of the run itself), it's rarely as easy to discern the future payoffs of the calculated risks that I take throughout each winter training cycle. Hints of those results may briefly materialize amid a particularly strong workout on the track or the gradually evolving conquest of a menacing hill with which I regularly duel, but the experience of collecting and savoring my winnings must wait until the day of a spring marathon, a truth I'm living for the seventh consecutive winter.

I believe this applies to the pursuit of any lofty, challenging goal that offers the promise of elation and satisfaction, while necessitating the investment of time, disciplined work, and some measure of personal sacrifice. Along the way, obstacles are inevitable; one's response crucially affects the attainment of the goal in question. I'm well aware that training for a spring marathon is impossible without engaging the vagaries of winter, often quite pronounced and eccentric here in New England. I'm well aware that pursuing a vocation to religious life and priesthood is not only wondrous and life-giving, but also intense and demanding. In both instances, and with respect to many other goals that I pursue in my life, I wouldn't have it any other way. And as I recognize the tension between my boldness and my prudence, and the interplay of the abilities I've grown and the weaknesses that I continually work to understand and accept, I'm hoping to be a little less stupid this winter.