I grew up hearing stories of my dad. I heard all about his strong will, his dreams, things he said and did. My mom would tell me that I was his "little princess" and that he loved me so much. I heard about his love and passion for running and how he would run every day in the mountains of Dillon, Colorado no matter the weather. She told me of his dreams to someday run fast enough to qualify for the Olympics. I heard of his will to fight and his determination to not give up when both of his legs were smashed in an accident and he was told he would never walk again. I heard the stories about how he not only taught himself to walk again but he was able to run again right before he died. These are only stories to me because my dad died when I was 4. I grew up wishing that I knew these things for myself and that I had my own stories about him to remember. I always wished so badly that I would have known him and been able to hear him tell me he loved me.
It wasn't until I started running and experiencing the pure joy of how it fills my soul so deeply, that I finally felt my dad in my life. When I would run, I often felt as if my dad was running with me and telling me he loved me. Discovering myself as a runner made me feel a connection to my him that I never had before and because of this, running was quite an emotional experience for me at first. Discovering the joy of running also made me realize just how happy my dad must have been right before he died. What joy he must have felt to have started to run again after being told he would never again walk! What Pure Joy!
Today I got several boxes from my Aunt that were filled with old pictures and keepsakes from my grandparents' house. I wasn't prepared for the emotions that would hit me tonight as I looked through my dad's baby pictures, pictures as child, baby clothes, letters he had written to my grandparents about us kids and his life, and so much more.
Here are just a few pictures of the things that I connected with the most.
My Dad. Texas Relays 1967
Medals from 1966 and 1967. I wish I would have listened more carefully when my grandfather took me to my dad's high school in Texas to show me his record in the mile that stood for so long. Back then, a race time didn't mean much to me. All I can remember is that his high school time was a sub 4:30. I want to say 4:15 but that would only be my best guess. I wish I could call my grandfather and have him tell me the story again.
After my hamstring tear this past August, I went through a very difficult time. I was so depressed and I wanted to run again so badly. It felt as if all the months of work I had put into marathon training was a waste. I could see my goals of running a 3:15 marathon just fly away with the wind and there was nothing I could do about it. I was in denial that my leg was as bad as it was and continued to try to run even though I could barely walk and the bruising covering my leg made it obvious that things were not okay. I was stupid and stubborn. That's when my mom reminded me of the stories about my dad and his determination to run. Her story really put things in perspective for me. I'm so glad I asked her to write it down because it is a beautiful:
Passion and Determination
In light of my daughter's recent injury (torn hamstring) while training for the Portland marathon that is coming up in October, I'm reminded of the drive, determination, and passion of an athlete. Watching Amanda struggle with the different opinions of her doctors, her frustration over the possibility of not running the marathon she's been training so hard for, and her strong will to heal and keep running despite the pain and the well-meaning advice from everyone to just rest, reminded me of another athlete who was once in my life.
My late husband (Amanda's father) was a runner, too. In our first few years together he never missed his morning run, ten miles through the forest near our mountain home. He ran through snow, rain and sometimes even if he wasn't feeling very well. On April 1, 1980 David and I decided to take a drive to Denver (we lived near Silverthorne, CO) and visit some friends. On the east bound side of the tunnel the roads began to get icy, and before we knew it we were driving on black ice. We were inching along I-70 at about 15 miles per hour when we saw a car lose control and slide off in a ditch, a woman and child. We got off at the first exit we could, and turned around to help them out of the ditch. By the time we got to them other cars were beginning to pull off to the side of the road due to the dangerous conditions. David was hooking up the needed equipment to pull the car out of the ditch when all of a sudden someone driving way too fast lost control of their truck, pinning David between our truck and theirs. We didn't have cell phones then, and were in an area where there wasn't anyplace to go for help. Thankfully, someone in one of the other cars along the side of the road had a CB Radio, and they called for help. It was 7:00 PM before an ambulance could make it to David. (the accident happened at 5:00 PM!). While we waited people from the other cars brought him blankets to keep him as warm as possible. The ambulance transported him a little ways down the mountain where he was then airlifted by Flight For Life to the nearest hospital in Denver.
David almost died that night. Both of his legs were broken so severely that he needed massive blood tranfusions, steel rods in both femurs, and numerous bands, pins and screws to piece his bones back together. David spent three months with his legs hanging in traction (pure torture for a runner who never missed his daily run). I lost track of the number of surgeries he had to endure over the course of a year and a half. The doctors were seriously doubtful that he'd ever walk again. David didn't let that deter him, though. After about a year he taught himself to walk! It was like watching a baby taking his first steps. He'd take a step or two, and then he'd fall to the ground. He'd get back up and do it again, and again. Two years after the accident he was starting to run again!
I wish I could say he is running marathons again. However, in October of 1982 David was killed when a ditch he was working in caved in on him. His passion for running, strong will, and determination lives on in our children. Both Jesse and Amanda have the same love for running that David did. His spirit lives on in them.
My late husband (Amanda's father) was a runner, too. In our first few years together he never missed his morning run, ten miles through the forest near our mountain home. He ran through snow, rain and sometimes even if he wasn't feeling very well. On April 1, 1980 David and I decided to take a drive to Denver (we lived near Silverthorne, CO) and visit some friends. On the east bound side of the tunnel the roads began to get icy, and before we knew it we were driving on black ice. We were inching along I-70 at about 15 miles per hour when we saw a car lose control and slide off in a ditch, a woman and child. We got off at the first exit we could, and turned around to help them out of the ditch. By the time we got to them other cars were beginning to pull off to the side of the road due to the dangerous conditions. David was hooking up the needed equipment to pull the car out of the ditch when all of a sudden someone driving way too fast lost control of their truck, pinning David between our truck and theirs. We didn't have cell phones then, and were in an area where there wasn't anyplace to go for help. Thankfully, someone in one of the other cars along the side of the road had a CB Radio, and they called for help. It was 7:00 PM before an ambulance could make it to David. (the accident happened at 5:00 PM!). While we waited people from the other cars brought him blankets to keep him as warm as possible. The ambulance transported him a little ways down the mountain where he was then airlifted by Flight For Life to the nearest hospital in Denver.
David almost died that night. Both of his legs were broken so severely that he needed massive blood tranfusions, steel rods in both femurs, and numerous bands, pins and screws to piece his bones back together. David spent three months with his legs hanging in traction (pure torture for a runner who never missed his daily run). I lost track of the number of surgeries he had to endure over the course of a year and a half. The doctors were seriously doubtful that he'd ever walk again. David didn't let that deter him, though. After about a year he taught himself to walk! It was like watching a baby taking his first steps. He'd take a step or two, and then he'd fall to the ground. He'd get back up and do it again, and again. Two years after the accident he was starting to run again!
I wish I could say he is running marathons again. However, in October of 1982 David was killed when a ditch he was working in caved in on him. His passion for running, strong will, and determination lives on in our children. Both Jesse and Amanda have the same love for running that David did. His spirit lives on in them.
Amanda
