Running

When I got off the train today, this kid…about 12 or 13 years old…came bursting out of the door ahead of me and start running.  He took off.  He had a smile on his face.  He was dressed in his school uniform.  A backpack was slung over one shoulder.  A raincoat was slung over the other.  He tore off down the ramp and was up the road and out of sight in a matter of seconds.  He took off running.  Running.

Running.  Frickin’ running.

He ran with purpose.  He ran with complete commitment.  He ran because…well, shit.  He ran because he was 12 years old, and he freakin’ could.

I walked.

Once, long ago, I wan.  At some point, I stopped running.  I stopped running long before the dress shoes and the khakis and the Land’s End Oxford, button-down shirt.  

Running, of course, is a metaphor for the kind of wild, reckless energy that we put into the things we did when we were younger and believed in our own potential.  It’s literal, too.

Something changes along the way, and we forget how to run.  More accurately, we choose to stop running because, you know, running is what kids do.  

Those kids are having fun.  Watch them.  

Life is simple.  Just run.  Run and run and run.  Smile.  Laugh.  And run.

Whatever you do, wherever you do it, do it like that kid coming off the train.  He had school trousers on.  He wore a sweater and an Oxford.  He even wore a tie.  And he still ran.  I bet you the little bugger is still running.  I like to think that he’ll keep running for the rest of his life.  

Wake up tomorrow, and start running.  The rest will follow…literally and figuratively.