Run

“I signed up.”

“For the hundred, Dad?” I press the phone closer to my ear.

“Yep. I did it about a half an hour ago. Your Podge is all signed up for the big race.” He sounds so happy.  He’s wanted to sign up for this race all year. Mom must be freaking out right now. Calm down, Kayla. Breathe. Word your response carefully.

“How did Mom take the news?”

He chuckles.

“Did you tell her?” If I know about this before mom does, she will definitely not be happy.

“I told her.” Then, silence.

“Was she upset?”

 I sit down at my desk chair, anticipating an agitated rant about mom’s lack of understanding

 “No.”

“Mom wasn’t upset that you signed up?” No? No! Mom wasn’t… upset about this? Dad signs up again for a hundred mile trail run? He hasn’t completed one since 2003. The first time he finished was before his torn Achilles, before the blackout on the ride home from the McNaughton hundred, and before the blackout in the Holiday Inn last year at Kettle Moraine. She told him after the last one that she was done, and that she couldn’t do it anymore. I hear the whooshing of air through my phone as my dad exhales.  

“Well, she wasn’t happy about it, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

I knew it.

“And you’re still going to follow through with it? After all of the complications and troubles you’ve gone through, and after everything that Mom, Kass, Jake, and I have had to watch and experience in your failed attempts at finishing, why would you continue, year after year, to run?

“Yes I am. Your mom may not approve now, but she understands that this is something that I want to do. Gary and Kevin signed up; they’re running it with me.” I roll my eyes. Kevin and Gary, his two friends from his ultra-running club.

“Dad,” I search for the right words. “You know I am proud of you, right? We all are.”

“I know that, Smodgy. You guys are my number one fans, been there every step of the way. Every marathon, every fifty miler, and every hundred attempt. Your old man’s a lucky guy.”

“You know that you don’t have to prove anything to us, right? You’ve always been our hero. I know you wanted to finish the hundred once after the surgery on your Achilles, but after last year, I don’t know if it’s a good idea.”

“Smodge, my little snafu from last year was an accident. The doctor even said it was dehydration. I know how to prevent that from happening. This time around, I’m prepared.”

A snafu? That’s what you considered it?

I remember waking up to a heavy thud at three a.m. in the hotel room and seeing you sprawled out on the floor. Mom was hovering over you, shaking you frantically. Even though she was shouting, I couldn’t understand what she was saying. Kassidy sat up in the bed next to me and started crying. Jake, sat up, too, from his bed on the floor. Mom couldn’t wake you up so she yelled at us, me, to call 911. I was frozen. I stared at your limp body on the floor, praying that your eyes would open. I remember the moment Kassidy reached over me to grab the phone. I was the oldest; I should have set the example, but I couldn’t peel my eyes away from you. I sat there while mom sobbed over you, until the paramedics arrived, gurney and all, a flooding of unfamiliar bodies in our small hotel room. We watched in a daze as they picked you up off of the floor and placed you on the gurney. I remember relief washing over me when you regained consciousness, groggy, but awake. They rolled him you of the room, mother following close behind. We kids were left to wait, the television chattering in the background, for mom to call.  

“Dad, what happened last year was not just a snafu. You spent the night in the emergency room. That wasn’t something that was easy for any of us. Mom doesn’t want you running this race again, because she is afraid of what is going to happen, and I’m scared too.”

“I know.” His voice is quiet.

I hate conversations like these. But they seem to be coming up more often since dad continues to run ultras. All for what? A miniaturized gold-plated kettle? A clay necklace with a leaf etched into it? Is that small object worth all of the hardship? The consequences?  He’s almost fifty now, although it’s hard to tell. He looks like a man in his early forties, except for the peppering of grey in his brown hair and the tired eyes. He’s been running marathons for as long as I can remember. He started sometime in his mid-twenties, around the time that I was born. But then, it was marathons or thirty-mile races, a fifty at most, never more.

              “Dad, I love you the most. I’m not saying that you can’t do this. I have faith in you and will support you in this race as I have the last races. I just worry about you.”

“I love you the most too, Smodge, and I know that my running worries everybody, but it is something that I can do. I promise that if I don’t finish this race come April, then I will not sign up for any more hundreds.” Wait, did he just say that? No more hundreds? I rock back in my chair.

“You’re completely serious about that Dad? No more hundreds?”

“You bet, Smodgy! No more hundreds. After all, I’m going to finish this one. I promise to run no longer than fifty milers.” A smirk spreads across my face.

“Dad?”                                                                                                               

“That’s me,”

“You’re crazy. You know that, right?”

 “That’s why you love me, though!”

I can’t help beaming at the empty coffee mug on my desk.

Once when we were on a run together, my dad told me about an eighty-two year old man he met during one of his races who had completed over eighty marathons in his lifetime, and over fifteen ultra-marathons. He said then, “Smodge, as long as my heart’s still beating, I’m going to keep running. I may not be as fast as I used to be, but that’s not the point.”

As an athlete, I share this same desire to challenge myself, to test the waters, and see how far my body is willing to go-whether it’s taking one more step before diving for a ball on the volleyball court, or pushing through to cross the finish line. Scoring the final point, winning the match, or finishing the race, it’s all the same. Why do I continue to play volleyball when the toll it takes on my body as a nineteen-year-old is already greater than it should be? Why am I still willing to put myself through the bruises, floor burns, and aching muscles? I do it for that one moment after meeting the challenge, whether it is a tough drill in a practice, or the final match of the season. It’s a moment of sheer bliss.  After this phone conversation last year, I realized that my Dad runs for the same reason, to challenge his own limits, those placed upon him by others and those placed upon him by his aging body. No, he didn’t make that hundred. And no, he didn’t keep his promise that this would be his last one. But I know now that he can’t quit until he’s met this challenge.