One recent morning, my 6:00 a.m. speed-work session was shaping up to be one of my worst runs ever. The weather was awful, completely dark outside and the air temperature hovering around the freezing mark, which wasn’t the problem in and of itself. But it was amazingly wet, too. The precipitation dumping from the sky was a chilly combination of rain, freezing rain, and sleet. Most surfaces were coated in a glaze of ice and there was wind, strong sustained wind that carried the water horizontally, with gusts that drove it right through my “water-repellent” running clothes. Five minutes out the door, and I felt as though I had jumped into a glacial river.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy winter running. Subzero temperatures, snow, wind—I love running through a winter wonderland. But this particular morning was proving to be a major exception. Finding a decent place for outdoor speed work was impossible. Since the local track is closed when I have time to train, I make use of a couple of alternative options depending on traffic, road conditions, and snow depth. None of the options are ideal, but I make it work. With the volume of precipitation falling and steady weekday traffic that morning, I simply didn’t want to risk running on the streets. Since the sidewalks were a ribbon of skating rink, they weren’t an option either. A treadmill? Well, I just don’t have the coordination to run in my fast gear on a tiny spinning belt. My best option was the arboretum. Most of the snow had recently melted, but the main advantage was that my weight would break through the surface ice, providing at least a marginal amount of traction. Plus, the thought of going down on frozen sod, as opposed to concrete, seemed like a slight advantage. However, there were loads of ice-covered water puddles, and in no time I could no longer feel my soaking wet feet.

I was nowhere near hitting my interval paces. My plan called for 12  400-meter intervals at a 1:21 pace. Obviously I’m no speed demon, but I put up a good fight in my age group. Using my GPS watch, I measured something close to 400 meters, warmed up as best I could under the conditions, then dived into the intervals: 1:30, 1:31, 1:32 . . . 1:35. Argh! Despite every effort, I could not break even 1:30; moreover, I was getting slower on nearly every interval. I’ll

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admit I had been struggling to hit my speed work intervals lately but hadn’t been too concerned since I was nailing or exceeding paces on my tempo and long runs. I had been chalking up my slower intervals to the cumulative demand of week after week of marathon training on top of an active family and exciting career. But this morning, I was getting my butt kicked, and I knew it.

I was completely alone. Now, I rarely have a running partner, particularly during speed work, but I always see somebody else running. I get a lift when I see others out running, especially around the crack of dawn and especially in tough weather. I can’t explain exactly why, but it may have something to do with knowing that at least a few others can push past the coziness of a warm bed, slip on some running shoes, and venture outdoors when few others would do so. When you’re suffering, it helps to know you’re not the only one. But this morning? Not a soul. I was the only one suffering.

Having finally completed all 12 intervals, not a single one near my target pace, I made my way back home. I was feeling low. Finding secure footing on the ice was difficult, yet cars were blowing down the street past me with wild abandon. Though I had lost the feeling in my hands and feet some time ago, uncontrollable shivering was evidence that my core temperature was beginning to drop, too. The blasted wind kept hammering a combination of liquid and frozen water at me from every direction. Even with the bill of my running cap tucked low, I had to

squint tightly to protect my eyes. I simply hadn’t seen a single runner and was pouting about my poor performance at my intervals. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him. A runner! A feeling of euphoria swept through me as I imagine it might be to find a park ranger after being lost in the back country overnight. I was instantly giddy with joy. I wasn’t the only person braving the elements. I hadn’t a clue who this person was, and I didn’t care. This runner and I shared a common bond; obviously we both had some internal grit, we took our training seriously, and some seriously crappy weather wasn’t going to interfere with our goals.

I sped up so we could visit, if only briefly. I was smiling inside and perhaps on the outside, too. I was eager to strike up a conversation with this guy. Surely he was excited to see me, too. I had spent an hour running in this awful weather, at one of the busiest parts of the city, and I hadn’t seen a single runner, pedestrian, or cyclist. I couldn’t wait to make a new acquaintance, chat about the wild weather conditions, and laugh about how tough the morning run had been. I actually started feeling good about sticking it out, even if my interval paces were so far off.

But as I approached this fellow runner, this newfound comrade, this foulweather running mate, I soon realized I had even more to be excited about than I ever envisioned in my two decades of running. For this runner I approached turned out to be none other than my oldest son, Garret. All of 12 years old, he was out there “doing what needs to be done.” He also was following his training plan—in his case for an upcoming 10K—and wasn’t deterred by the elements.

Bumbling through my speed work, sliding around on numb feet, shivering uncontrollably, and being pounded by negative thoughts, I found that those struggles became valuable to me when I saw Garret wrapping up his workout near the end of mine. It made my day.

What I thought was going to be my worst run ever turned out to be my best.

Courtesy of Marty Williams

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The only thing worse than a cold, disappointing speed-work session was not seeing a single other runner that morning—at least until I came upon a young runner, right, whose presence would fundamentally change my perspective of that run.