A Great Dad Believes You Can Do Anything
Posted June 18th, 2007 at 1:15 PM by Alexandra Haller
Section: Motivation
My Dad thought I could be the first person on Mars. He also believed I could be the first female president. He figured I was smart and talented; therefore, there was nothing of which I was not capable. Nothing. When I ran my first 5K and finished in about 33 minutes, he wondered aloud, as if were the most realistic thought in the world, why I wasn’t in the group of runners finishing sooner. Did that bother me? No. This is how my dad has always been, pushing me (and my siblings) because he thinks it’s the most natural fact that I would succeed.
The thing is that I’m never the one at the front of the finish line. When I was in eighth grade, I was forced to sign up for a field day event. I was painfully skinny, comically uncoordinated and god-awful scared of anything slightly athletic. Whatever event I was assigned to, I had made up my mind that I’d likely lose. The only available slot for the races was on the end of a 4-person relay and I was quite certain I’d let the other three down. Was my Dad going to let that attitude persist? No way.
Occasionally he would jog after work and he insisted that I tag along. The horrors! So I schlepped along, always a few feet behind, most likely scowling and complaining. It’s just that I was 13 years old and my dad was always faster, stronger. He’d encourage me to run ahead while he dropped down for a set of push ups but inevitably he’d still beat me to some stop sign, fence post or property line. I never seemed to get any faster. I’d feel at times that I really was exerting myself. I’d come back from the runs bedraggled, and famished for dinner. This carried on for a couple of weeks (which felt like an eternity) and finally—the moment. Field Day 1990.
There were no dramatics or nose-length victories. I finished last and truthfully I was just glad to have it all over with. My matchstick legs couldn’t have hustled me from a burning house. This was awkward adolescence on a make-shift, black top schoolyard. Of course, my dad was the only one even pretending that I might have had a chance. I believe my attitude had doomed me as soon as I saw my name on the events list. After that day (even though I would not admit this) a little part of me wondered if my dad was right for believing me capable. Do parents know what they’re doing? Sometimes?
Looking back, I can’t say that something specific happened that day to turn me into a runner. I think it was more of a combination of all the little things of which we are ever so slightly aware. My parents were always health conscious. They encouraged us kids in the same pursuits. Maybe I would never be a volleyball or softball player like my sisters. Surely, I would never attempt to try out for the basketball team like my brother. Is it possible my parents with some intuitive sense knew that? One year they gave me a gym membership for my birthday and it started clicking. Team sports weren’t for me.
In that realization, something was let loose within. I could be an athletic person if it were a solitary endeavor. I shudder at the burden of letting others down: missing the ‘bump’ in volleyball, dropping the fly ball, falling behind in a relay when others expect something of me. Running gloriously alleviates all of that angst and frustration.
Peering out from the window of time, it’s easy to think that my parents were alarmingly perceptive. My dad thought I could get the running thing down, even if he might have pushed a bit too early. On the phone he still asks if I’ve been running. He continues to dole out $25 for racing costs. He is aware of the strength I have within myself. It only makes sense; after all he helped to instill that. One day he’d like to participate in a race with me, but for now his spirit tends to be more willing than his body.
What he doesn’t know is that I am always running with him and for him. During grueling, exhausting runs when I can’t think of much to keep my feet in motion, I inevitably picture him. I imagine a finish line (even if I’m the 500th person crossing) and I imagine him next to it. I see him jumping up and down, grabbing his hat and waving it around, cupping his hands over his mouth shouting my name. I envision his trademark misty eyes as he swells with that fatherly I-always-knew-you-could pride. That scene propels my feet up and down and on and on every time. Every runner has a moment when she feels like she can’t continue, but yet she can keep pushing as long as her Dad will be there. At the end. Always. This next run’s for you, Dad. Maybe I’ll beat you to the stop sign.
***Note: We encourage EVERYONE to see a doctor before altering their diet, taking a supplement and/or performing athletic, fitness or other strenuous physical activity. It is your responsibility to evaluate the accuracy, completeness and usefulness of any information, instruction, opinion or advice contained in the content. Please also see our complete disclaimer.***
Tags: 5k, dad, father, fathers day, inspiration, motivation
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The Final Sprint