I was on the bus at 7am this 14 degree Boston morning wishing I was still in bed when I happened to look out the window.
There, alongside the bus, making his way up historic Bunker Hill - was a runner.
He was covered head to toe in black. His face, from eyebrows to chin, the only skin exposed to the freezing wind. Up the street with puffy clouds of breath trailing after him he ran.
All I kept thinking was this guy is two steps from at best a seriosuly sprained ankle, at worst a heart attack.
What was wrong with him? Even the bus was having a hard time making it up the steep incline.
But there he was chugging along, gulping very cold air into his very red face. Not only was it sooooo cold but there was ice everywhere with huge snowbanks on every corner - really dangerous stuff. Why hadn’t he moved his run to later in the day or canceled it altogether?
As I continued to watch him jump in and out of traffic, duck underneath icicles and hop over embankments I slowly began to realize that it was somehow, strangely - wonderful. Definitely a little nuts, but wonderful nonetheless.
He could have slept in this one morning. He could have rescheduled or skipped today altogether. But instead - he chose to run.
Chose to run up that crazy high hill, in the crazy ice cold, at the crazy crack of dawn -it was a crazy beautiful thing to see.