Allentown, Pa.
Following My Dad’s Footsteps
The firing gun ignites. A biological explosion follows. The piercing cry rushes to the ears, then to the brain, and signals a drop of adrenaline much like gasoline in a car. The rusty, weathered levers and pulleys within my legs, each coiled in an infinite chain from toe to hip, begin to churn. Joints grind and limp muscles constrict. One leg pulls forward; the next follows. My foot leaves the starting line as the other is already a step ahead. The dormant machine is awake.
A roar of excitement booms with the start of the race. Voices yell. Cowbells rattle. I am surrounded by the swelling wave of spandex and sneakers. I look to my left to see the same spandex legs, just a little longer, the matching T-shirt worn by broader shoulders, and the same brown eyes behind a layer of wrinkles. My dad smiles back. I have been running as a part of the track team since my freshman year of high school, and I have been running with my dad for just as long.
In the midst of the race, I am surrounded by a swarming hum of pounding shoes and beating hearts. I am smothered by sweat and suffocated by gasping breaths. With each stride I pull a step ahead of my dad. I dodge in between runners, slipping in and out of pumping arms. The nerves knotted in my stomach jump; my legs spark. I am uncontrollably absorbed into this wave of runners, a massive sea of limbs. This wave pulls me farther away from the starting line and deeper into the blur. When I glance over my shoulder, my dad is no longer there.
Whenever I was undertaken by a wave, my dad was always a short distance away. He waited on the shore watching my every move. At any second, he was ready to be my rescue. It didn’t matter if we were on the Jersey Shore or in the Bahamas or on the coast of California, because my dad was always there.
And when I started running, I would run every Saturday with my dad. The typical hour it took us to run the parkway was the hour we had to escape from nagging responsibilities. It was solely for us. Whether we spoke or ran in silence, we were at least on the same path.
Approaching the hour mark, my dad was still nowhere in sight. My wobbly legs brought me to a zigzag in which the course looped and I could see the leading runners parallel to me. My eyes oscillated between the runners to my left and to my right searching through the endless blur of colors for my dad. My legs picked up the pace. But then my chest condensed, weakened by the past week of coughing.
I rubbed my nose on my sleeve and thought, Since my dad is not here to see me quit, I don’t think it will be breaking my promise to run a half marathon with him. At this point, my legs thawed to some gelatinous substance. But the millisecond before my mind could convince my body to stop moving, it was interrupted. “Hey, Nic!”
My dad and I continued, now reunited. I never felt more relieved to have my dad back by my side. My dad always inspired me and guided me. Even though my dad could have sprinted ahead, he stayed only a step in the lead and consistently looked back. At the ten-mile mark, my nose started dribbling blood. I wiped my nose on my sleeve in hopes that the blood was only a trickle. I was wrong.
When my dad turned to make sure I was right behind him, he immediately saw the crimson mess on my face. He snapped into panic mode, pulled me aside, and pleaded that I not finish the race. I told him there were only three miles to go and if I was going to quit, I would have done so already. The stigma of quitting is not about winning. It is more about following through with a promise to your teammates, to your fellow runners, to your father, and to yourself.
I took a tissue from a spectator and crumbled it up my nose. Like that, I shuffled through the rest of the race despite my achy legs, on-and-off again side sticker, chest pressure, and the gushing bloody nose.
During the last mile, I could almost feel the chilled water gushing down my parched throat. Approaching a stadium filled with spectators and cheers, we limped up a hill to the final 400 meters. My dad turned to me and wheezed, “Are you ready to finish this?”
We sprinted the last bit with any remaining energy. My little sneaker stomped over the finish line just after my dad’s larger one. I guess I will always follow in my dad’s footsteps.