I don’t remember exactly the way it happened, but when I was about 9, I started running with my dad.  I remember lacing up my high-tops…yes, really.  And I distinctly remember running this one hill that wasn’t far from our house, on South First St. in Kirksville, MO.  That hill was a beast.  And we did repeats.  But for some reason, probably because it gave me the opportunity to hang out with my dad, I didn’t mind the pain of hill repeats.  Still to this very day, if I’m ever feeling discouraged about anything, I go run the hardest hills I can find, and it makes me feel better.   There is something about conquering a tough hill that truly makes me feel strong, like I can get through anything.  I give my dad all the credit.  Every time I run a hill, I can hear his voice saying, “Just keep your eyes up and it doesn’t matter how slow you go, just continue putting one foot in front of the other.”  He was teaching me about running, but at the same time, he was teaching me valuable lessons about life.

Dad and I started doing 5ks not long after that.  I usually walked away with an age group medal and sometimes a trophy for being the youngest runner.  My friend Angela who started running with us was always annoyed by the fact that she was just a couple months older than me.  It makes me happy that Ang is still running too, and a couple years ago, she ran her first marathon.

I loved running with my dad.  We didn’t talk, but he was just there, right next to me, the whole time.  He always let me set the pace, which was likely pretty inconsistent in those first few races.  He taught me when to start turning up the heat at the end so that I left it all on the course in a sprint to the finish.  And even though he could have pulled ahead of me, he never did.  He always stayed one step behind me, and pushed me to the finish.

By the time I got to high school, I’d kind of had enough of running for a while.  I ran one season of Cross Country my freshman year and then I said, “Dad, I think I’m sick of this.  I need a break.”  He said, “Ok, take a break.”  So, I did.  I tried other things. I played catcher and outfielder for my high school softball team.  I went to college and took up rowing.  By 2001, things had come full circle, and I was back to running again.

In June of that year, I had just returned from a trip to Juarez, Mexico, where I had gone with a church group to build houses for a week.  I had quit my job as a preschool teacher just before I left on that trip.  I was living in Chicago at the time and the day after I got back I went for a 6 mile run along the lakefront.  On that run, somewhere near Shedd Aquarium, I started thinking, I need something to focus my energy on while I spend this summer looking for a new job.  Hmm, what about a marathon? Yeah, I could do that.  As soon as I got home, I started researching the Chicago Marathon.  That was back in the days when you could wait to register until a few months before the race.  Now, if you don’t sign up the day registration opens, you’re not guaranteed an entry. I called my dad, told him what I was thinking, and he said, “Yep, I’ll walk you through it”.  And so an adventure began…

Every Friday morning, I would do my long run.  I slowly, gradually increased my mileage a little at a time.  And every Friday morning, after I completed my run, I picked up the phone and called my dad to say, “I did it.”  Occasionally, during those phone calls, my dad would have someone in his office, and I could hear him say, “It’s my daughter.  She’s training for the marathon and she just ran 18 miles.”  His voice was dripping with pride and my heart would swell.

One Tuesday morning, in September, I was out for just a short training run on a beautiful, blue sky day.  I got back to my car, only to hear complete chaos on the radio.  I couldn’t figure out what had happened during those 3 short miles, but I knew it was something big.  Then, they cut to the President speaking, and I slowly started to understand that while I had been out running, not just one, but two planes had flown into the World Trade Center in NYC.  Like the rest of the world, I was in complete shock.   And like almost everyone else I know, I spent the rest of that day in front of the TV with a tear-stained face watching the rest of the day’s events unfold. Every year on September 11, I think back to where I was on the Chicago lakefront, when the world as we all knew it changed once again.

As October 7, 2001 approached, my nerves started kicking into high gear.  My parents had to be in Connecticut the night of October 6 for my brother’s EMU football game against UCONN.  I was really scared that they wouldn’t make it back to Chicago in time to see me somewhere on the course.  My dad insisted that they would figure something out.  So after my brother’s game ended, they spent the night at the hotel closest to the Hartford airport and jumped on the first plane into Midway Sunday morning.  As they were landing in Chicago, I was just beginning my first attempt at 26.2 miles.  I had no idea if they had made it back yet or where I might see them, if at all.  I just knew that I needed my dad.

The course has changed somewhat over the past 11 years, but that year the middle of the course was in the heart of downtown Chicago on State Street.  At about Mile 12, I was completely miserable.  I hadn’t really seen anyone I knew along the course and I was feeling somewhat abandoned.  I wasn’t even halfway through, I could tell I had a bloody toe, and I really didn’t want to keep going.  I was staring at my feet in some junky old Addidas that I really should have replaced prior to that event, and I started to pray.  God, this sucks. I don’t know if I can do this. Please let me see someone I know.  And soon…

At precisely that instant, I lifted my head up and looked past a sea of runners and spectators several people deep.  My eyes went straight to one face…my dad’s.  It was like something out of a movie.  The sun was shining right down onto him lighting him up in the midst of all those hundreds of thousands of people.  I literally cut straight across the course and probably knocked a few people over in the process.  I stood before my parents, jumping up and down, saying, “I’m right here!”  They couldn’t believe I’d found them.  They gave me a quick high five and I was off again.  I started to cry at the emotion of seeing them right when I needed it, which made me start hyper-ventilating.  If you’ve ever run a marathon, or any distance for that matter, you know how imperative breathing is.  I calmed myself down, got my breathing back under control and continued on my way.  My folks went to other spots to try to find me, but that was the only time I got to see them on the course that day.  And, sadly, that is the only time I’ve seen my dad during any of my 7 marathons.  Less than 2 months later, a very sudden heart attack took him from us in the middle of the night.  But that marathon, and that summer of weekly long run calls to my dad, was a gift that I will cherish forever.  My dad got me back to my love of running.  I think he knew that I was going to need running in my life to get me through the hard times.  He gave me the passion, the knowledge, the tools, the drive, the determination and the confidence.  He was my coach, my cheerleader, my running partner.

I had the privilege of running one very last 5k with my dad during that summer of 2001.  In August, we signed up for the Bison Stampede in New Buffalo, MI.  It was our first, and only, race together in over a decade.  It was a pretty uneventful race, and I didn’t do all that well, but it was a good way to work some of the kinks out before the big one.  As we toed the start line, I knew I had gained some speed on him over the years, so I said, “Dad, I need to run my race, so I’m probably not going to stick with you today”.  He said, “Yep, I know.  Do what you need to do.”  He knew I was finally ready to run on my own.  And he knew it was time to let me.

A love of running is born. Thanks Dad…