When I crossed the finish line of my first marathon I did not have love in my heart. For 26.2 miles, I carried a heavy load of pain and heartbreak and crossed that finish line dehydrated, disheartened, and done with running. Next to me, my dad crossed the finish line with an easy smile and the pride that only a parent can have when their child completes something totally out of their depth.
For Christmas, I made the crazy decision to buy my dad an entry into the Sugarloaf marathon along with the promise that I would run the race with him. My dad was already a seasoned marathoner, and I thought that this would be a fun way to get myself motivated to graduate from a half marathon to a full. Thus began a five-month marathon training cycle. Each Sunday I’d text my dad about the details of my long run and he’d respond with his progress. Although we usually only chatted about running, this was probably the most consistent line of communication I’d had with either of my parents since I moved out of their house when I was 20.
Slowly my mileage climbed until, in March, we decided to meet in New Hampshire to celebrate my birthday with a half marathon. My parents got up well before dawn, drove three hours, and then spent two hours in the sleet only to drive back home once they were done. The conditions were miserable, but I ran with a stupid smile on my face even as my fingers went numb from the cold. My dad was right beside me the whole time, with equally numb fingers, and an even happier demeanor.
“He must really love running,” I thought.
From there, my mileage went into uncharted territory. My long runs climbed into the teens and I logged dozens of solo miles. The week leading up to my first ever eighteen-mile run I began to doubt myself. Fifteen miles seemed reasonable, but eighteen was just absurd…only crazy people would run eighteen miles by themselves.
That Friday, without any prompting my dad announced that he was going to make the four-hour drive to Portland on Sunday to run our long run together. I was elated. Although I valued my alone time, I knew that his presence was going to make this doable. He wasn’t going to let me stop. So, I excitedly re-planned the route to show off my favorite running spots and got ready for the eighteen-miler.
Like promised, my dad showed up on Sunday ready to run. He parked, we stretched, and then I lead him on an eighteen-mile running tour of Portland. We ran across the Western Promenade and saw the beautiful snowcapped White Mountains. We ran along the ocean and saw the cherry blossoms in full bloom. We ran up hills, and repeated loops, and waved to other runners.
At first, I pointed out my favorite sites and talked about work. Then our conversation shifted to books, music, politics, and life. When the miles got hard my dad told stories about his wild teenage years, and in response I shared uncensored versions of my own teenage stories. We talked about the friends we’d both lost to drinking and drugs, we shared dreams of being writers, and then we ran in silence. After hours of running, we finished our eighteen miles and he got back in the car and drove four hours home.
“He must really love running,” I thought.
As the marathon got closer, disaster struck. With just a few weeks left to go, and two runs in the twenty-mile range still on the calendar, I took an overwhelming personal hit. The seven-year relationship that I had been in came to a mutual, but no less devastating, end. That Sunday, instead of running twenty miles, I drove home to my parents. Instead of hydrating, I sobbed in their guest bedroom. Then on Monday, I drove back home to do some more crying. All week I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, and I most certainly couldn’t run.
But, then I my dad called. He told me he knew things were hard, but that I had two options: I could quit, or I could run 20 miles on Sunday. It was a catch-22. When I was little, my dad taught me that “Wallers weren’t quitters;” and so I knew that my only option was to run.
I spent the weekend at my parents’ house, and that Sunday we embarked on my longest run yet. My dad held all of my hydration and gear while we ran in silence. We looped around the same 5-mile neighborhood, and on the fifth loop I started hoping a car might hit me. My feet ached, I was undernourished and dehydrated, and I was dreading the four hours I had to drive back to Portland to an empty apartment. Despite all odds, we finished the run. As we jogged in the last half mile my dad turned to me and said,
“You know, if you didn’t do this run, I wasn’t going to let you run the marathon.”
I grunted in response.
Two weeks later we ran the marathon. By then, the crying had mostly stopped, and I was able to get enough food and water down so that I resembled a human being at the starting line. For the first ten miles I felt unstoppable. As the miles got harder I reverted into a teenager and refused to listen to the advice of the man who had trained alongside me. I became petulant. Then I became downright unpleasant. I didn’t just hit a mental wall, I hit an emotional wall, and I just wanted it to end.
After I finally dragged myself over the finish line I had nothing positive to say. Even though I’d finished a marathon I felt unworthy of pride. I was haunted by lack-luster performance and just wanted the day to be over. Meanwhile, my dad forced me to take a picture, insisting that this was a moment that I’d want to remember. With a giant smile on his face he asked a stranger to take our photo.
“He must really love running,” I thought.
Almost four years have passed since that marathon, and I’m finally back to training for distances beyond the 10k. My mileage is creeping up and once again I am texting my dad about my long runs. This training cycle brings with it four years of maturity and emotional growth. It brings more consistency and less ego. I no longer use running as a tool to manipulate my body into looking a certain way or as permission to eat certain food. I run because I love the feeling of accomplishment and the process of training. I love competing against myself and giving my body what it is asking for. My first relationship with running was flawed and I spent so much time trying to force things to happen. This time, it just works.
Recently, when discussing my plans to run a half marathon after my extended break with running, I mentioned to my dad that there was a race here in June that might happen. Without hesitation he said he’d come up to run it with me.
“He must really love me,” I thought—and then I understood. Every mile he drove, and every mile he ran alongside me, was not just for the love of running.
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