There was on glitch though: I wasn't ready to race. I'm still recovering from a back injury that has plagued my desire to be active for almost two years. And I was (and am) in no condition (yet) to run a half marathon. (Bummer. Big time.)
Though that one fact weighed on me hugely, I was happy to be a spectator for the first time ever and to show Dad from the sidelines that I'm his number one fan, that I am uber-proud of him, and that I think he's the raddest dad around.
So on Saturday Feb 19 at 5:15 in the morning, we snuck out of Gram's house and hit the road.
Dad had a sore thigh that was a bit worrisome but was otherwise full of beans.
HE worked it out with some stretching and walking before the start.
With the official start only a few minutes away, dad was feeling – and looking – super fine.
It was still pitch black when the gun (cannon, actually) went off. And the full moon had yet to set.
"Go get 'em, Dad!" I yelled as he walked powerfully off from the start line.
Early in the week, Dad said to me: "I'm aiming for a 2:40".
But he was looking strong and I had a strong feeling that if ever he was going to "wow" on the race course, it would be today.
Sure enough, as the clock struck 2:30, there was Dad! Looking strong, coming through the finish line chute, hands up stretched, smile wider than his face.
"Holy shit!" I yelled as I jumped up on the barrier to take pictures.
"what?" asked the woman beside me.
"He's 10 minutes faster than he thought!" I said excitedly. "10 minutes!"
"Well, holy shit." she said with her southern twang and smiled.
"Go Dad Go!" I screamed.
Pumping fists. Taking photos. Being proud.
His official time has yet to be posted, but I'm pretty sure it was a Personal Best for him.
For me, it was a lesson in humility.
When I first lined up at the finish line and watched the runners start to come in, I had a few moments of self-pity.
I wanted to be IN the race; not watching the race.
Then I watched the faces of each finisher and realized that they were all succeeding at a personal challenge.
Right now, my challenge is to heal so I can lace up my runners and get back in the game.
In the meantime, watching my Dad – a former chubby smoker (sorry pops) – tear up the race course at 61 years old and ousting runners half his age. Well, a prouder daughter there can never be.
Congratulations on a killer race, Dad!
