When I was young, my family was a skiing family. My parents moved to this part of the world primarily due to a love for skiing. Each year, we downhill skied almost every weekend that the ski lifts operated. For more than a decade of weekends, our winter days were spent carving turns on the hill and our evenings were filled with board games, reading and early nights.
One night at dinner, I proudly proclaimed that I had skied hard all day and had not fallen once. I still remember being taken aback by my dad’s abrupt response:
That just means that you weren’t trying.
Even at nine years old, or whatever impressionable age I was, those words hit hard and sunk in. I guess I had been fishing for praise but his words were a reminder that pushing yourself is the only way to improve. Not working hard was not praise-worthy. His demand for work ethic even flowed into leisure pursuits.
I am no longer a skier but I carry Dad’s message with me when I run. To me, running is my version of play. I play in the forest as often as I can. I take my play seriously and I work hard when I play. That can mean that I sign up for challenging races and work hard towards being ready to toe the line. It can mean that I refuse to walk a hill or that I push my pace faster. And this week, it meant that I ran fast, tripped on a root and fell down hard and fast during a casual solo run.
With the wind knocked out of me and severely bruised ribs, I lay at the side of the trail, gazing up at the trees and tried to figure out how I came to be reclining in the moss. I thought about Dad.
Well, Dad, I guess I am improving.
along a path 