“Should we run together this morning?” she asked.
I thought she was joking. My wife, Jennie, and I never run together. I shouldn’t be so absolute, but neither of us could remember the last time we ran together. It was probably a couple of years ago while on vacation.
With that, we were off on a pre-church Sunday run. As we strutted down the driveway, I posed a question believing that I already knew her answer, “Street or trail?” I was wrong and we headed toward the trail.
Our history of running together is filled with stories of annoyance. Me annoying her with clever words of inspiration. Her annoying me with continual insistence that I run ahead. Her running style measured. Mine philosophical. For the good of our marriage, we gave this up years ago.
We ran for 40 minutes… together. Between moments of comfortable silence, we chatted about races to come, the chilly wind, our boys, the lack of snow, her half-marathon goal, a dead mouse on the trail, her shoelaces, and the Packers.
Jennie earned a new nickname for ripping off her gloves with tremendous spirit and gusto after we turned out of the wind. My hands remained chilly and numb.
“Hot hands” was the perfect running partner today. She didn’t advise me to leave her in the dust and I didn’t try to convince her that she could sprint the last half mile. We just ran… together.
Before jumping off the trail, we crossed paths with a single mom from our neighborhood running with a friend. We both smiled as we mutually assumed it was a boyfriend. Maybe running brought them together.
To our pleasant surprise, it did just that for us today.