Nutella Milkshakes

In my early twenties I worked in a running store. Taken at face value, it’s just running shoes. It’s just selling athletic apparel, socks, not-particularly-nutritious-at-any-other-time-than-training running nutrition, plus other gadgets and accessories to people who run. Or people who walk. Or people who are starting to run for whatever reason.

It was never just running shoes though. People don’t come to a running store for the gadgets and the gear. If they are only concerned about buying the best, that’s what Google is for. And Runner’s World reviews. No, people come to running stores for help simplifying the unbelievably confusing process of becoming healthier versions of themselves. 

When someone decides to become a person who runs, runners intimidate and inspire them. But something about the running store is magnetic, drawing the newbie in. There’s a pull in their gut that says, I know you’re afraid, but this is how you find it. So, the person works up enough courage to finally walk through the door and hesitantly say that they are looking for running shoes.

For the most intimidated, it was already an epic battle to cross the threshold and utter those few words. In that moment, they feel like they are standing at the door of a super exclusive club, underdressed and obviously an outsider, waiting to find out if they will be invited in. It’s pouring rain, they don’t have an umbrella, and they walked miles to ask if they could be included. Most of them asked to be fit for shoes with a calm face. But all of them had the look of stray dogs left abandoned and alone during a thunderstorm in their eyes.

Their eyes are pleading, petrified, guarded, and hopeful all at once. They are prepared for and expecting rejection. They doubt if they will ever be able to think of themselves as a runner, so they don’t see how a real runner could accept them. But they have enough hope in belonging that they had to ask. Hope quieted their doubt just long enough to get them through the door and ask about running shoes.

So, my job was never really about the running shoes. It was about smiling and holding the door open for them. It was about reassuring someone that they were welcome, and that you’d help them find their place in this intimidating world. Becoming a runner, and then being a runner, breaks you again and again and again. My job was holding their hand as we navigated together. And to make sure they knew there would always be someone to help them stand back up when they fell.

If I did my job right they’d be back in the store within a couple weeks, asking more questions. They might pretend they really needed that extra pair of socks, but I always knew. Yes, a runner can always use another pair of socks, so it’s a good cover story. But then two weeks later, it would be a new shirt or hydration belt and more questions. The fear in their eyes diminished and gave way to curiosity as their confidence grew that they’d be able to figure the whole running thing out.

With time they’d need you less and less, and that was a good thing. They’d still be back often, and you’d get to see these runners of all ages blossom into happier, more confident people as their legs accumulated miles. It’s extraordinary to watch someone change their life so profoundly when you know so much and so little about them. After ten years I don’t remember them all by name anymore, but I also have stories and people I hope I’ll never forget.

Like the guy who had never run before that was inspired during a Sunday church service in April to register for an October marathon. He wasn’t the only one from his congregation taking on the same challenge for charity. But he was one of the few that caught and course-corrected underlying health problems through marathon training. After those first six months of finding his way and successfully completing the marathon, he kept running.

Ken kept training for marathons, and kept coming back for shoe refills and the little boosts of confidence runners find in other runners. One night he came in for shoes with his family while they were waiting for a dinner table a few storefronts down. They hadn’t eaten at the new burger place yet, and I told them how delicious their Nutella milkshakes were. About an hour later, he walked back into the store carrying one for me.

From then on, whether he needed running things or not, he’d bring me a Nutella milkshake any time he was picking something up from the burger place. Once or twice I noticed him glancing in the window before returning with a milkshake ten minutes later. But, often it was an amazing surprise. He probably didn’t know it, but he had a knack for lining up his milkshake delivery days with my particularly challenging work days. He probably thought of it as a small way to say thank you for all the help keeping him running. But I always saw it as a huge kindness.

My final milkshake delivery from Ken happened on my last day of work at the running store. My departure was not taken well, and my final days were exhausting, draining, and heartbreaking. I wasn’t able to tell any of my regulars that I was leaving, so I cried in the backroom each time one walked out of the store smiling. I knew they would all be fine without me, but I also felt like I was abandoning them. On that last Saturday afternoon, I was empty.

Then, suddenly there was a Nutella milkshake in my hand. I cried after Ken left too, but they were my first happy tears that week. Gratitude finally won. Instead of feeling sorry for myself that I wasn’t getting to say goodbye, I shifted. In more than two years of selling running shoes, I got to be a small part of hundreds of people changing their lives. Thanks to a kind human, good timing, and a Nutella milkshake, that’s what I decided to carry with me to my next adventure.

My high school running coach always said that ice cream makes runners happy. So, once a season we’d run to an ice cream store for our practice. He’d buy us all ice cream and we’d have the option to walk or run back to school. He was right, and ice cream still makes this runner happy. But who knew that years later that I’d find gratitude in a Nutella milkshake.