Running

I was a girl who dreaded that day of reckoning in elementary school. The day that neither the promise of pride, nor the threat of inevitable shame could get my otherwise highly competitive drive going. The day? MILE DAY. That's right, friends. Even as an otherwise active and energetic child, I couldn't get my little bird legs to round that dirt path enough times to finish a mile. Oh, the shame I must have brought on my athlete of a father. He was a collegiate swimmer for a major university (and a hell of a good one, I've come to understand), he was a coach for young swimmers, he was an annual runner of the Tulsa Run (a 15K), a finisher of half marathons, a regular on softball leagues, and he worked at a university recreation facility, y'all. The SHAME of my incapable little bird legs...

But like the wonderful father he was, he only encouraged me. And as I grew up, I found great satisfaction in being good at many other non-sporty things. He was there, cheering me on at concerts, contests, recitals, major exams, student council elections, all of it. Never once did he make me feel bad for not pursuing athletics.

Somewhere in my early twenties, though, I got the itch to run. So I did. Sort of. I ran around my neighborhood for a few blocks, then walked a few blocks, then ran a few more. Then the stretches of running got longer... and longer... and longer. Until one day I realized that I? I RAN A MILE. WITHOUT STOPPING. It was an epiphany moment for me. In almost every part of my life where I excelled, I started out as at least marginally decent for a beginner. But this? I was terrible when I began.  Perhaps only marginally better than Phoebe from "Friends"... but slower.

But I kept working at it until I got better. And stronger. And more confident.

Guess who was cheering me on the whole way... That's right. My dad. For that reason, I decided to run the Tulsa Run as an homage to him in 2006. It was the first time I ever trained for anything of that athletic magnitude. He was there throughout the training, offering advice, tricks, tips, and encouragement. And obviously, his number was the first one I dialed after I finished those 9.3 miles and crossed the finish line.

Never, ever will I forget the sound of his voice. He sounded so proud as we talked through the course, my pace, the hards parts, and the fun parts.

From then on, I was hooked. I've run a handful of 5Ks, two 10 miles and two half marathons since then. It's allowed me to find a power in my body I never knew existed. It makes me feel strong. Strong! That's an adjective I never thought I'd use to describe myself in a physical sense. It's completely changed how I think of my little bird legs, too. Because, hey. If they can carry me through all these hundreds of training miles, then they deserve my admiration, not my derision.

It's been a fanciful wish of mine since the Tulsa Run six years ago that my dad and I could run a race together. It never seemed realistic, though, because we live in different states, and more importantly, because he's had some issues with his back and knees for several years. However, with some training and PT and determination, he's come a long way in regaining some strength... so I went out on a limb and asked him to join me in a 10-week training that will lead up to a 10 mile run in the Twin Cities on April 14.

And he said yes.

This time we get to cheer on each other.