If your neighbor is thirsty...

Yesterday I went for a run on Kansas City's Trolley Track Trail (say that five times fast). It was late afternoon, probably 5:30 or so, and the weather was decent, especially in light of how hot it was a week ago. I left my car in a parking lot near the Roasterie and sidled over to the trail sign, trying to decide how far I would go.

The route was broken into odd legs of 7/8, 3/8, 1-3/4, etc. I figured I could do 3 miles down and back pretty easily. (I had, after all, run a handful of half-marathons and finished plenty of 8-10 mile runs in the past five years.) I might have been a overly ambitious.

By the time I reached 85th Street (my turnaround point), I was wishing I hadn't had such faith in my own body. I was also extremely disappointed by the lack of drinking fountains to be found along the Trolley Track - a trail explicitly designed for runners, walkers, and bikers: people who need water. I made the mistake of stopping, thinking that would give me a chance to catch my breath and dig deep for some energy and endorphins. It didn't.

Now ideally this would have been the moment that some sort of inspirational song shuffled onto my iPod. I'm thinking "Eye of the Tiger," "Don't Stop Believin'," "Defying Gravity," inspirational. But I had forgotten my iPod on this particular adventure, so I was left listening to the rhythm of my feet as they played in sync with the gasping of my breath.

I stopped every time I crossed a major intersection (roughly every half-mile), hoping it would be Gregory Boulevard, or better yet Meyer Boulevard. But it wasn't.

Then I spotted the telltale strip mall that marks the corner of Gregory and Wornall - the intersection that marked the beginning of the end, the last leg of my journey. As I waited for the little white man to beckon me on, I noticed a large man in khaki shorts and a red polo shirt standing beside a folding table and pouring gallon jugs of water into 4 oz Dixie cups. Now, who is that for? I wondered, a bit envious of whichever running club had their own Trolley Track watering station. As I approached the table I slowed to a walk, looking for some sort of signage as I passed the man with the water.

A runner coming from the opposite direction crossed my path and stopped at the table. He wasn't wearing a number or a uniform. He wasn't a part of any sort of group. The man started up a conversation with him, handing him one of the precious Dixie cups. I paced back and forth, hands on my hips, heart in my throat. I don't always like asking for things. Even when I really need them. It's not that I have a problem taking them if the giver says "yes," it's dealing with the rejection whenever they say "no." No, this seat is taken. No, I already have plans this evening. No, there isn't room for you. No, this is meant for someone else.

I hesitantly back track to the man with the water jugs. He sees me right away, discerning in my eyes the question I'm too afraid to ask. "Would you like some water?" he offers. A smile crosses my face. "I'd love some," I respond. I grasped the paper cup, savoring each of my four ounces of water. And then I boldly ask if I can have more. "Of course," the man says, filling my cup. "Thank you," I respond. "Thank you so much."

And that was it. No strings attached. No promotion made. No money exchanged. Just one person blessing another, sharing a gift and asking nothing in return.