The One Race Worth Winning

My father was a runner. Every day he would wake before the sun rose, and I’d hear the front door click against the frame as he crept out to thunder around the city. He would never whisper goodbye, or kiss our sleeping foreheads. He would simply be gone when the house began to stir. My mother would make us breakfast, get us to school and reliably see us through the day. My father would go straight from his pavement pounding to his very ordinary office job. He would not return until my brother and I were safely back in warm pyjamas and ready to say goodnight. Looking back, I can appreciate the hustle of a working father. But I do wonder whether those few moments before the day began, could have been better spent at home, rather than alone with nothing but gym shorts, sneakers and the sunrise for company.

My happy memories of the man were all born of weekends. He would of course perform his dawn ritual on those rest days as well, but between that and the sporadic Dad duties around the house, he was all ours.

“Francis? What are you doing inside on a day like today!?” He asked one Saturday afternoon, just after my fourteenth birthday.

“I have to study. I have a chemistry test tomorrow.” I explained, turning to see his head poking through a crack in the door.

“Ah, you’re a smart kid, you’ll do great,” He said, having no idea if that were true, “Listen, me and Derek are going out for a run. The weathers perfect! Not too hot, nice cool breeze, I reckon your brother might break his personal best for the park circuit! Why don’t you come with us? You can do the timing…you don’t even have to run…what do ya say, son?”

“I’d love to dad,” I lied, “but this is a really important one. If I do well, I might get onto the summer program and that will really help with college applications in a few years…”

“Ah, right, the extra science classes. Gotcha. Well, if you change your mind? It’s gonna be a good day! I can feel it in my toes!” he said, hurrying back into the hallway and down the stairs, bouncing on the balls of his feet the entire way.

Turning to the bedroom window and looking out, I spied on my father and Derek. They were play fighting and racing down the driveway. It was in that moment that I came to understand. If it didn’t involve running, my father simply wasn’t interested. The way to his heart was through his passion. Something that despite his lower grade average, my brother had figured out far faster than I.

That evenings dinner conversation went as expected.

“You should have seen him, Beth! The boy was like the wind today, completed the full circuit a full five minutes faster than his previous time! Here Son, take another slice of pie. You earned it. Gotta keep that energy up!”

My mother did as she always would when faced with my father’s enthusiastic obsession. She smiled and pandered, in blind support.

“That’s so good, Derek,” she said, “you should be proud of yourself. Well done.”

My brother practically began glowing with the pride of their praise, I swear he grew about an inch that day.

“And how has your day been, Francis? Get that studying done?” My father said, suddenly realising he had not acknowledged me since they had arrived home. I could always see the exact moments he remembered I existed.

“Yeah, I got through all the chapters and read ahead just in case. Did you know the surface res-”

“Good! Good, good,” he said, “let me know how that test goes. Both of you boys have got to keep your grades up! As much as I wish running could pay the bills, you’ll both have to make a living as well.”

“Winning the city marathon will pay a few bills, hey Pa!” Derek shouted, his mouth full of food.

“That it will my boy! Five thousand dollars! Might as well already be in my pocket!”

“Do you really think you’ll win, Dad?’ I asked, really trying to take an interest, “There are thousands of people that participate, some of them professionals…”

“Of course! Don’t you worry lad, I’ve been training for this for years, I know every crack of that pavement. It’s a sure thing, you’ll see!”

The weeks before my fathers marathon passed with increasing focus on the event. I woke several times to him leaving the house even earlier than usual, and when he returned at night, he barely had the energy or attention to say his usual goodnight to us. Often his head was buried in registering for the day, tracking other contenders and scouring maps of the route. To my great relief, Derek did not meet the age restrictions, otherwise our home would have been entirely dominated by the upcoming spectacle. I passed my exams with honours. My report card was pinned to the fridge. It was quickly swallowed by flyers for future running events.

When the big day arrived, I was genuinely excited. Win or lose, by the time we returned home, it would finally be over. My hope was that Dad would return to the normal level of running fanaticism and I might be able to have some kind of normal conversation with him. Still, my feet were loathe to drag my body to the car and then through the crowds to the roadside, right by the finish line. I had barely seen my father all morning, all his preparations had prevented me even being able to say good luck. I could see him on the screens though, having arrived so early that he was starting from the front of the pack. I settled in, sitting on the curb and pulling down my cap against the summer sun. Forced to wait the hours it would take for him to cross the line. I spent much of it studying the tarmac, gaining an understanding for how someone could learn every crack in a sidewalk. Eventually, my over enthusiastic brother and passive mother shook me to attention. The rapid pats to the shoulders and ruffles of hair drew my eyes up to the screens, where I saw my father, powering forward and still comfortably at the front of the line after several hours. I felt a strange surging of pride. He was actually doing it.

The rest of the race held my attention far more readily. Dad’s strong strides never seemed to waver and he consistently held off any contenders of first place. All those mornings began to make more sense to me. His training had been far more intensive and productive than I had ever imagined. It seemed as though, what I had taken for the hobby of a middle aged man, was more like the training of a gifted sportsman. I found myself rising to my feet, fixed to the screen as he approached the last few streets. There were two other runners competing for position just behind him, both looking far more worn down than my father, who acted as if he had just jogged round to the shops rather than run half way across the city. When I spotted him with my own eyes, just a faint outline at the end of the long stretching main street, I found myself cheering.

As the three leaders began sprinting down the last stretch of road, I noticed that one of them began to sway. He was much younger than my Dad, fair skinned and only a few metres behind. The summer sun beating down on my own neck must have been torture against his bare skin. His legs began to buckle and wobble at odd angles, then grow weak, almost pitching him to the ground. With only a few minutes left of the race, he looked as though he was going to pass out and not make it. Gasps and hollers from the crowd sounded as the poor man collapsed against the barrier. Dad, already constantly looking over his shoulder to check their approach, spotted him quickly. His feet slowed, his eyes locking onto the man, and without a thought, he turned around. My father, for whom running was everything. A man who put his sport above sleep, life and family every single day, in a snap decision, gave up his win. My mother gasped, my brother let out an audible ‘no!’ and I watched him, my mouth hanging open. Dad trotted over to the man, placed the weakened competitor’s arm over his shoulder and half dragged him toward the finish line. The third man had already won the marathon, more were passing them constantly and yet my dad heroically assisted this other poor soul to complete the race. He helped that competitor to achieve his dream, at the expense of his own.

The crowd went wild for him. Recordings of the moment were played repeatedly online for years to come, and he was welcomed home by my family as the pillar of everything a good man should be. Yet, I could not help thinking at the time, if he were able to give up that moment of glory for a stranger…why couldn’t he give up a single morning of training to have breakfast with his son? Why couldn’t he have held his tongue for five minutes so that I might share one of my interests? Why couldn’t he have loved me, who found fulfilment in science over track events, as much as a kindred runner? A man he didn’t know from Adam. I feel the guilt of those selfish ideas. But I do not blame myself. It is not wrong to want to be loved by my father, to the same level as someone who regularly wears out sneakers. I’m a grown man now, but I still find myself waiting for him to look at me in the same way that he looked at that man. I hold out hope, that one day he will.