So, unexpectedly, I am running. Again. It appears to be a middle aged woman's Oh-my-I-really-ought-to-get-my-life-back-on-track kind of plan. And I am one of them, now. But that's okay. It did,indeed, help me get my life back on track. :)
That said, I have a lot of very fond memories of running. And not because I really liked to run.
My dad has run since I have memory of him. He ran marathons, half-marathons, triathlons, trail runs, street runs. You name it. It was a somehow core part of my "whole picture" of him.
Imagine my surprise when I suggested that he come run with me for my "homework" run when my folks were here a few weeks ago, and he said "no". And not just no, I hurt myself and I really shouldn't, but no, my knees have gotten excruciating and I cannot run ANYMORE.
I acted fine, of course...I ran without him after he left. But the more I thought about this aberration to my universe the more it hurt me. And not because I didn't get a running buddy. It hurt because it was a passion, a talent, a joy of his. It was kind of like when I heard that Julie Andrews could no longer sing because of a throat infection and surgery. A desecration, almost.
I started running with my dad when I was little. He jogged and I ran up to the horse farm across the street. This started when I was somewhere between ages 5-8. Seriously. I was not probably the world's best running companion, but I did love the big-ness and camaraderie of it. I ran with him for years. I even ran about a mile race on his hospital team for the Deaconess Dashers for a fundraiser run. I felt like such a part of something. It was so cool!
As I got older, I kept running. Not because I loved it, but because I enjoyed how it made me feel after. Wiped...but triumphant. Tired...but successful. I ran track in High School. Again, not because it was fun, but because I was reasonably good and I loved being a part of a team. I enjoyed the common goal, the sisters-in-arms kind of relationship with my teammates.
I appreciate my father setting the family goal of health and involvement with the out-of-doors. I tend to dismay when I am not exercising. Not depression, but not a great emotional place. I think that is the same for my father. I know that he knows that of me, so I suspect it's genes...
All this to say. I am randomly thankful for my father's passion and sharing of that passion of running. I am thankful for his sharing his secrets to a certain peace of mind. Running to exhaustion and to prayer. He is a great man. And I am blessed to have run along side of him for 36 years.
Ethan despises stickers on cars. I mean really hates them. I asked him this morning if I managed to get myself in gear and pull off a half marathon, could I put a "13.1" sticker on my Suburban. He said, "Sure. I guess." I find myself thinking that reason alone is almost worth the insanity. :)
But just know that if I do pull it off. It's for the running trips to the horse stables, Daddy. Thank you.