Melted Ice Cubes

Editor’s note:  I wrote the following about a month ago.    I've deliberated about whether or not I’d post it, but I finally decided that it needed to be shared.

Lauren is traveling and I’m sitting alone with my thoughts in our new home, nursing what’s left a tall glass of scotch and some melted ice cubes. It’s been nearly a month since I lost my Dad to cancer and in the flurry of activity surrounding his death and the subsequent busyness I, if I may be blunt, need an evening like this.

 When I had just turned 18 years old, I finished high school early and drove north to the family cabin to help my dad finish his training and preparations for the 2004 Iditarod.  The roads were treacherous and what should have been 6 hour trip had turned into 14 hours.   When I arrived late that evening I found my dad working on his laptop.   After I had brought in my bags and had some reheated supper on my plate, Dad asked me to read what he had been working on.    I could smell the whiskey on his breath, but it didn't strike me as significant until I read what he had been typing.

He had just written an account of arriving on an accident scene while in the Upper Peninsula.  He stopped because of his emergency first responder training and assessed the situation. It was a grisly scene. Three or four gravely injured people.  He had to make triage decisions knowing that there was nothing he could do to save some of the people.   Dad asked me if it was an ok thing to share or if it was too graphic; that’s when I knew there was more to his empty glass of scotch than met the eye.

Dad and I talked late into the evening and at one point that evening he explained that he would often pour himself a tall glass of something strong and write about things that were bothering him.   I don’t know if he published the story he wrote that night story to his blog or simply deleted it like he did most of the things, but he described it as a coping mechanism.  If he could get it out, into written form, then he could let it go.  The alcohol helped with that.

I’ve needed a night like tonight because, quite honestly, I haven’t had a chance to get a few things out until this evening. I haven’t had a quiet night where I could think and let my thoughts flow without inhibition onto the screen in front of me. It feels profoundly appropriate to borrow his method of coping tonight.

My father’s death has easily been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to deal with. I expect it to be harder than my mother’s passing when it is her time for a few reasons, but the biggest reason is that my father taught me to dream; to dream wild and impossible dreams. Dad was a person who imagined things and then worked like hell to make them happen.   People have asked me how he got into the sled dog racing.  It’s baffling that he went from a guided tour of Alaska in 2000 to owning a few dogs in 2002 to completing THE race in sled dog racing in 2004.  Think about that for a moment, in the space of 4 years he went from a dreaming spectator to finishing a race that has been finished by fewer people than have summitted Mount Everest.  Dad taught me that when you combine a dream with hard work and planning you can accomplish amazing things.

 It’s just damn hard to know that the person who encouraged me to set wild goals and cheered passionately as I worked for them is gone.  Memories are great,  but I won’t ever get to feel his hand on my shoulder  80 miles into a bike race when I think I've got nothing left and asking me, “What are you going to do about it? You might as well keep going and see what happens.” 

Of all the lessons I learned as a child growing up, the lesson of pursuing your dreams resonates with me more than almost anything else he taught me. It has served me well, from graduating with honors from the University of Michigan with a master’s degree in engineering, to finishing a 100 mile mountain bike race and an ultramarathon. His lesson of dream + work = success is the reason Lauren and I were able to save for a house down payment in under a year.  As big of an impact as that lesson has had on my life, it recently became second fiddle to a more significant lesson.

The one thing that resonates with me far more than his example of being a dreamer is something that I never had the opportunity to thank him for while he was alive. The reason is that I didn't learn it until he was dead.  

That lesson is simply the value of kindness to others.

The legacy of my father, to me, will be one of showing kindness.   It has amazed me the number of people who mentioned that “He was a friend when I needed one” or “Your dad made a difference in my life.”   We only get one shot at this life and it became apparent to me that my dad tied to make people feel like they were valued and important whenever he could.   Sure, he may not have been perfect,   but lessons of kindness and respect that he taught will stay with me far longer than the lessons of corporate strategy or changing the oil on my car.

So what the hell   doe this has to do with running?   Didn't I start to write about the reasons why I run?  I suppose the death of my father would be an acceptable reason to sidetrack my series of essays. I actually had another one written just before I got the call that I need to go to the family farm to say goodbye.

The reality is that my father’s death has offered me more clarity as to why I run than I could have ever to hope to achieved prior to his death.    The answer doesn't need multiple essays. The answer is simple.

I run for joy.

No, not the temporary high of endorphins. Not the satisfaction of winning a race.  Not even the feeling of success I get from meeting a goal.  I run because while I run, I can leave the stress, misery, and grinding soul-sucking despair inducing world behind.  I get to, for a moment, step into the mystery and beauty of the world around me and I find joy there.

Not the warm fuzziness   that people think of when they’re happy. I’m talking about the piercing and heart-wrenching joy that makes you laugh and cry simultaneously.  The face on the person who suddenly sees their loved one return unannounced from overseas combat.   The young child who is set free and discovers a puddle to splash in.  Or as my sister so elegantly described in her blog (http://wordsrunningdeep.blogspot.com/2014/03/the-mile-that-matters.html ) the joy of seeing beauty in the face of unimaginable pain.

Indeed, running is how I get to glimpse joy.   I heard a pastor paraphrase C.S. Lewis in a sermon once saying that the glimpses of joy that God allows us are not a glimpse of what is, but a glimpse rather of what will be.