What a beautiful beginning to this Thursday morning here in Sunny Southerly Southland. Warm rays of light are glistening off of every imaginable surface and their influence is flowing through my blood stream.
Seeing them as if for the first time, runners make their way along the boardwalk wedged between the highway full of commuters and the Gulf of Mexico, out for a little morning cardio. I've never really cared to notice how many of them there are.
The track star anticipates the starter gun, wiggling his arms and hands by his side, running in place knees high to his chest then shakes his head and rolls his shoulders.
The morning commute seems every bit insignificant, the same as yesterday and the day prior to that, meaningless in its scope and repetitive magnitude. But the sun's effects today can not be discounted.
He approaches the starting line, toe to chalk, head down. The warrior's calm before rage, a moment of grace before the explosion of war.
If nothing else, the morning treks from home to my place of business teaches to embrace the peace that traveling offers. It is an obvious trap to get caught up in the repetitive cycle and complacency of ritual.
As still as the hungry tiger coiled before launching onto her prey, the track star takes one last deep breath in unison with the crowd and his competitors, filling lungs with brisk, afternoon fuel.
Familiar icons of the landscape pass by as an effort is made to cherish every single one of them, although some days it is far too easy to overlook their unique beauty.
On your mark!
Familiarity breeds contempt.
Get set!
It begs the question: Are their any moments in life that are truly insignificant, lacking uniqueness unto themselves, regardless of the similarity and familiarities contained therein?
Standing there, ready to run, I glance to the left and notice my fierce competitor, physically gifted and graced with unparalleled speed, he has never lost a race. Not once. On the biggest meet of the year and the biggest race of our lives there is little evidence that this track star to my left should not win on this particular brisk afternoon. Likely by a considerable distance.
He looks up, focused, anticipating the starter pistol, as still and coiled as a drawn bow, and then a slow, wet trickle begins to run down his leg. The track star looks down, puts his hands over dampening shorts and drops to the ground. A pool of urine forms and he seems to be...crying.
The pistol fires and I hesitate but the race has begun, already falling behind my competitors, and the reigning champion, the favorite for the crown is out. Legs churning ever so fast, the runners ahead slowly get closer, but this pushes them even faster. There is no catching up as focus begins to wane, imagining the horror left behind, the embarrassment on the grand finale of the season, one track star's moment of glory seeping out of his pants, disappointment pooling all around.
And then there's the unmistakable sound of a runner approaching from behind, closing in with every stride until finally passing by.
I finish in last place, ending the race much like many others before, and the track star finished respectably, but did not win, which was a monumental deviation. For me, this race was like all others in almost every aspect. Outperformed and outclassed by my competitors, yet posting a decent enough time. However the take away is the track star, expecting to win, brimming with confidence knowing full well he was well on the way to beating the entire field, right up until he became saturated with anxiety and fear, quite literally. Falling to the ground, embarrassed for thoroughly wetting himself, he found the courage to stand up all soaked in urine and finish the race, knowing that there was no chance to win. The race itself meant more than claiming championship.
This small, relatively insignificant moment of my life (likely more of a significant event for the track star), has become a prominent fixture in my brain and that kid, that very fast, wet kid, taught me an important lifelong lesson.
Perhaps he grew up to be an extraordinarily successful man, his outcome shall remain unknown. As the drive into the workplace commences, the sun glistens upon everything imaginable, even the memories of days long gone. The runners make their way along the boardwalk wedged between the highway full of commuters and the Gulf of Mexico. Passing them by daily, but never taking much notice, today the sun seems to illuminate them a little more than I ever recall.
Today's Jazz Hands are for all of those champions that do not necessarily cross the finish line first.
