Why I Wave
I’m a runner.
Well…I run…
My family has a long and proud tradition of running marathons. My brother, my father, my uncle…my other uncle…even my grandmother have all completed (and continue to complete) race after race. As for myself, I’m not quite up to that caliber.
Don’t get me wrong, I love running. At least…I love the past tense of the verb. The after-run is where it’s at. That sense of achievement mixed with a pleasant dose of Dopamine and Adrenaline. Plus the encouraging thought, “If I can run nine miles, then what the hell can’t I do?”
But I’m not here to endorse running and testify to all of its benefits (there certainly are some, but probably not as many as you’ve heard). I’m just here to talk about people.
As an outdoor runner, it’s practically inevitable that you’ll pass (or be passed) by a variety of individuals. For some people, crossing another’s path is utterly embarrassing. It’s a true challenge (an understatement) to look presentable–to look human, even–while running, with panting mouth ajar, exhausted eyes cast down, and sweaty, smelly…everything. And clad in minimal clothing and subjecting yourself to physical torture, you can’t help but feel exposed and vulnerable.
I’m not a fan of running indoors, so naturally, I’ve experienced plenty of these awkward encounters. For almost two years now, I’ve run past countless persons, without muttering a word or tossing a glance. And why should I? Why would those people care about a scrambling young runner like myself?
Then I met this tall guy with a hat…
It was an unusually hot evening, and it had been far too long since my last run. A couple of miles in, my pace had gone from proud athlete to stumbling drunk. It was more of a stagger than a run, really. I was so desperate to preserve my dwindling pool of energy that I let my head go limp and was watching the dust kicked up by my feet. But every few steps I had to look up, else risk running off the sidewalk. During one of these lift of the eyes, I saw a figure gliding swiftly toward me…
He was majestic. He wore a bright orange hat to match his seasoned orange shoes. He didn’t run; he galloped. His strides were at least twice the length of my own, and I swear to you there wasn’t a bead of sweat or hint of fatigue on his face. Now he was a runner.
I cursed my luck. I didn’t want anyone, let alone an experienced marathon-runner, to witness me in my present condition. And to confess…I tried to speed up. I thought maybe I wouldn’t look so detestable if I could run just a little bit faster. But my lungs and legs laughed at the idea. There would be no accelerating to save face.
So, as this demigod of a runner approached me, I did what I always had done: I looked down and pretended not to take the slightest notice of him.
But I couldn’t help myself from snatching one last glimpse of this man who would have inspired Pheidippides. I pulled my eyes up and unwittingly caught him staring straight at me. It was as if he had been waiting for my acknowledgement. Then he waved his hand, gave me the sincerest of smiles, and said…
“Good luck!”
It took me a moment to understand what he had said (probably because my brain was gasping for Oxygen), but never in my life had such a mundane phrase felt so encouraging. Not only did he offer me a friendly wave and warm smile, but he went out of his way to cheer me on, to tell me that he hoped the best for me. And all that without a shred of sarcasm or insincerity (I’m certain I didn’t misconstrue his tone).
After finishing my run (which didn’t get any easier, by the way), I began to consider the simple significance of this man’s gesture…
How many people do you pass in a single day? I don’t care if you run or not. Maybe you’re driving, walking, working, biking, leaving the bathroom stall and awkwardly bumping into your co-worker, Damian… How many? What do you think it would mean to these passerby’s–these people–if you gave every single one of them a little smile, nod of the head, or wave?
I can tell you what it meant to me. It meant that someone had the decency to acknowledge my existence, empathize with my struggles, and tell me that they’re rooting for me. I mean, we’re all humans for God’s sake. We’re all stranded here, trying to army-crawl our way through this repulsive shit-hole. So why not give your neighbor a wave the next time you drive by? Maybe throw in a genuine smile. Try to tell them that “Hey! You and I–we’re fucking human beings! I know life’s a smelly ass sometimes, but at least we’re stuck smelling it together!”
Since the day I met that tall guy with a hat, I’ve tried to offer everyone I pass a little wave. I don’t always want to give it, and people certainly don’t always care to receive it, but I do it anyway. Why? Because just maybe it’ll make someone feel like they matter…and that matters.