Dad

I started running with my dad when I was about ten and running in a youth track club.  We would run two miles together in the hot summer evenings.  The course was always the same: one mile out, walk a block, then run the rest of the mile home.  I still remember the sounds of the frogs we tried to avoid and the snails crunching that we couldn't.  I don't remember what we talked about, but I remember feeling pretty grown up to be running with my dad.  Dad was never the type to push me or the pace, and we never started a watch or logged miles, but we just ran and talked. It was perfect. 

As I grew and became more serious about running, we still ran together, though less regularly. When we did run together, the course varied, and the pace picked up, but when I needed him for a running companion, Dad was always there.  When I was running faster than he wanted to, Dad even followed me in the car or went with me to the track to keep a lookout. I knew he was right behind me as always, watching, supporting, silently cheering.  

After I left home for college, I treasured my occasional runs with dad even more. I ran with Dad whenever I came home for a holiday.  I would be chatting the whole time as I matched my pace to his, he prompting with a question now and again. He never told me what to do, but asked my opinion and let me work out ideas for myself.  It was my chance to have the undivided attention of a busy man whose approval I needed, and I think it was his chance to show me how much he loved me.   At least that was the messge I got.

I loved that in recent years we ran on relay teams together, and that he started getting excited about time, pace and mileage.  We could chat as equals about training, races, and running gear, as well as work, family, and faith.  We still ran together on vacations, and whenever else we could.  It was reassuring that whatever new phase of life we went through, some things were always the same when we ran. 

Until a year ago. My Dad went for a run and never came back.  He suffered a heart attack while on his morning  run. The strange irony is that his heart was fine while he was running; it only stopped when he stopped.   I ran guiltily while he lay in the hospital, because I needed to make sense of the world and yet running seemed to be suddenly dangerous.  I kept planning how our running routine would change when he came home, and tried to figure out how I could keep running if he didn't.  Unfortunately, he never recovered the way we expected, despite heroic efforts, and we had to say good bye. 

Even though he isn't around in person anymore, I still run with my dad.  I talk to him as I log the quiet miles; I hear echoes of his voice cheering during my races (go Emmie! You are a machine!). I know he found peace and joy when running, and I know he would want me and my siblings all to keep running, too.  I never told him how much this meant to me that we ran together, and I realize now that running wasn't the most important thing.  Running itself was just another reason to be together.   But while running, Dad taught me that I was important, that what I had to say mattered, and that he loved me.  So thanks Dad, I'll catch you on the next run.