I have always been the type of person who has strived to be the best in anything that I was doing. Sports, assignments, jobs. A perfectionist is what some people call it. I don’t like the label.
That feeling of wanting to excel didn’t kick in until I was 12 or 13.
When I was in fourth grade and finally old enough to choose my own position on the soccer field, I chose defense. Why? Because at that time, it involved the least amount of running. I was lazy. Unmotivated. I was placed on the B team and couldn’t care less in that moment about making the A team. Maybe next year.
Next year I did. And my dad was no longer my coach after being so the last 10 years. I finally put it on myself to step up and be better. I realized that I was going to have to change my attitude and work my way up on this new team.
I then did that with every team I was on. I left travel to play club. I made varsity as a freshman and was a three-year starting defender and co-captain my senior year. I wasn’t okay with not starting and I wasn’t okay with making mistakes. If I didn’t get a drill, I got frustrated to the point of tears. I don’t like not understanding things that should be easily understood - or easily in my mind.
Choosing defense when I was 10 was something that stuck. I also chose the number 14 for my jersey, because that was Troy Bolton’s number. That stuck too.
Remembering my attitude toward running when I was 10 however, makes me think of how I could never imagine myself then running the length of the soccer field willingly, much less a marathon.
My dad on the other hand was a forward on the field and just ran his 11th marathon. Clearly he’s kept in decent shape.
One would do the trick for me. That would fulfill my fitness goal and knowing that my body and brain were capable of doing such a thing would be rewarding. The bragging rights would also be a plus. But 11? Straight up unnecessary. Down right extra. But that’s not all folks. He’s not done.
He was already looking for the 12th before he even ran the 11th.
He always does that. He’s never going to be done. We got a text in our Fam chat the other day out of the blue saying, “Thinking about Baltimore in October.” The only appropriate response I could think of? “Good morning Baltimore.”
I hope that one time I’ll be running one with him. So does my mom. Maybe next year. But probably not.
Let me tell you. Nothing, and I mean nothing, makes you feel worse about yourself than watching a marathon does. You see all sorts of people running 26.2 miles and think, gosh. I suck.
There are the 12 year olds. The pre-pubescent children who are somehow able to accomplish more than I ever did at at that age in the span of four hours. When I was 12 it took me four hours to get up off the couch and get away from the Zoey 101 marathon.
Then there are the 100 year olds. Well, not actually. But it sure looked like it. And you know what, kudos to them. GOOD for them. But also, jeez. I am decades younger than you and I get winded walking up my driveway to get the mail.
And then there’s my dad.
A very fit man who was running his second marathon in eight months. A man who had been waking up every morning at 4 for the last year to run before going to work. I woke up at 4 that morning to text him some Gifs from The Office episode where they run a marathon, one of which included Andy Bernard’s bleeding nipples. Yes. That is a real thing that I have witnessed many times now. You just don’t forget the eye contact you make with a man who has that situation going on. You just don’t.
Dad responded to my bleeding Bernard Gif with one of dachshunds dressed as hotdogs running. If you know, you know.
He was ready to go and out the door by 6.
If I had that kind of commitment and mental focus needed to run a marathon I would probably be on the path to becoming a Rhodes Scholar. Probably.
Similar to wanting to be the best on the soccer field, my dad (who used to feel the same way) now feels that way when he’s running. When he doesn’t finish in the time he had hoped, he gets down and is upset with himself.
If I tried to run a marathon, the place would be shut down, lights off with no finish line to cross by the time I reached it. But I get that competitiveness from him and that need to be the best.
We both beat ourselves up for doing things that to us seem bad but to everyone else a huge accomplishment.
One day I would like to train for a marathon, or at least a half marathon. Once I have the time and energy to truly focus on it and not back out if I get bored or sore or if it’s raining. I like being the one that people root for and I like the adrenaline I get when I do something amongst the cheers.
But for now, I’m okay with being the one who cheers everyone on.
This year, I was standing on the curb of the 10-mile mark dancing to Fergalicious, Cotton Eye Joe and The Macarena. That was my contribution to the marathon. I broke a sweat.
After every race, my mom suggests that perhaps it’s time for my dad to retire from the full and cut it back to half marathons - as if that’s even “cutting back.”
My dad’s response? Hmmmm no. Maybe next year.
After Dad’s first marathon in Southampton in 2009.
Gary flexing after running The New York Marathon in 2016.
All smiles after Hartford Marathon in October.
Approaching the finish line in Burlington last weekend.
Post Burlington.