Things That Remain

The Father Wound

guest — Tue, 04 Dec 2007 01:19:00 GMT

All of us, to a greater or lesser degree, bear a father wound. That wound plays a significant role in who we are and how we behave. The wound is inevitable because a father is so great in his child's eyes that no mortal can avoid falling short. For those who grew up without a father, his absence itself is a wound. Some wounds are deeper than others, but we all have them. The sobering fact for those of us who are fathers is that we all inflict them as well.

Saturday morning had all the early markings of a great day. It was crisp and sunny and my two oldest were excited about running the "Jingle Jog", an annual 1-mile race at their school. It's a festive event, complete with race numbers, a t-shirt design contest, sponsors and prizes. Like most children, they went into the event with the expectation of winning. Like most fathers, I went into the event hoping they would.

Last year I ran with my daughter, so I told my son that I would run with him this time. I took a little time to coach him. I told him to stick with me, I'd set a good pace for the distance, one that I knew he could keep and that might get him a place on the podium. But at the sound of the horn, he sprinted ahead of me with the rest of his friends and ran out of gas after about 150 yards, right around the time I caught up.

"Come on Jack, let's go. Pick it up."

"My stomach hurts Dad."

"You started too fast, you'll settle in, just keep moving."

"I can't Dad, I don't feel good."

"You can do it, just stick with me. You'll feel better after you've run at a slower pace for awhile."

"Let's stop Dad, I can't do it."

"No Jack, I know you can. Let's go. You can still do well."

"Dad, I've got to stop."

"Fine. I'll see you at the finish."

So I ran ahead. Frustrated that he hadn't listened. Frustrated that he didn't have more perseverance. Frustrated because I knew he could have done so much better.

I justified running ahead by telling myself I could grab the camera and get shots of them both at the finish, and I did that. But that's not why I ran ahead.

As Jack crossed the line, right around the middle of the 3^rd grade pack, he looked defeated and sad. Had I stayed with him and uttered more encouraging words, his countenance would have been completely different. He wasn't sad that he didn't win. He was sad that I left him. He was sad that his father failed him.

My daughter finished a couple of minutes later, red-faced and tired. She said she "had that breathing problem again" which basically means she had to breathe really hard in the cold air. I tried to make up for my lapse with high-fives and congratulations at the finish. They posed for this picture, and shortly thereafter we went home.

I desire excellence for my kids, but at what cost? And what exactly is my definition of "excellence." Ultimately, I want Jack to be the most excellent Jack he can be, and we're both trying to figure out exactly who that is. The last thing he needs is a Dad who leaves him in the pinch.

I was aware that I inflicted this wound, and I'll do what I can to make up for it. But what about the others? What about the ones slowly accruing in my blind spots, the ones I don't even recognize?

I used to wonder why my father would occasionally be curt and critical. Now with a few years of fathering under my own belt, I marvel at the man's patient forbearance. It's tough to consistently respond to childish impulses with gentle words, to correct childish failures with patient instruction. And yet that's exactly what I am called to do.

Christ said that the man with good eyes is blessed because his whole body will be full of light, and that the man with bad eyes is cursed because his whole body will be full of darkness. "If then the light within you is darkness, how great is that darkness." In context, he was speaking of the ability to distinguish the eternal from the temporal, the things that would decay from the things that will remain. I pray to that same Christ, who still gives sight to the blind, that he would give me eyes to distinguish between the significant and the fleeting in my children's lives. I pray that the wounds I inflict would be small ones, and that the one perfect father would heal even those.

Over the River and Through the Woods

guest — Mon, 26 Nov 2007 23:38:00 GMT

We went to Grandmother's house (or as my kids call her - "Nana") for Thanksgiving. We actually crossed a number of rivers and passed through a lot of woods to get there. As always, it was worth the 6+ hour drive. My Mom and Dad live on a slice of heaven in the mountains of East Tennessee, and I never tire of standing, sitting or walking in their backyard and looking out over the layers of varied hills extending in every direction.

Temperatures started dropping on Thursday morning while my wife and I went on a 5-mile run, and it began to rain during our cool-down. The run was a sort of pre-paid penance for the day of gluttony on which we were about to embark. Later, we feasted on a traditional turkey dinner. After I gorged myself during the main course, I over-filled my stomach with pie and my son's birthday cake (by happy coincidence, his birthday lands on Thanksgiving every six years or so, and he is indeed one of the greatest reasons that I am thankful). That afternoon I planted my ample stomach on the porch swing and looked out over the cloud-shrouded hills, wondering if they were named, and wishing I had time to explore.

On Friday morning I ran again, but the temps had fallen to around 30 degrees, so my wife opted out. It snowed during my run and I'm sure the locals cast a suspicious look at the out-of-towner running through their park in shorts. Over the course of my run I did a lot of meditating about my life, passions and priorities. It's a constant balancing act, and there are other people to consider in connection with every decision I make. I had decided some 10 days prior to train for a full marathon, something I've long wanted to do, but I was already starting to feel the tension of scheduling long runs amidst dance recitals, Christmas parties and school programs.

On one side of the scale I place my reasons for wanting to complete a marathon, and note that they are primarily selfish - it's something I want to say I've done. I can sanitize my reasoning - I want to do it for health, etc., but I can get plenty healthy and fit by training for something other than a marathon. On the other side of the scale are the needs of my wife and kids, primarily the need for me to be around during the weekends, because during the week I am generally not. The work week simply doesn't afford the opportunity for a long run. The scales swung into balance as I ran. I'll content myself with running the ING half marathon in March.

As I sat in my parents' porch swing and looked out over the valley, I asked myself why I felt such peace there. It was the beauty of the place in part, but also the awareness that in the moment I didn't have to do anything other than enjoy it. And so, to the extent I can, I will try to pass my choices through the filter of whether the options are peace creating or peace reducing. To the extent that I can, I will chose the former.

(I'm the dude with the coffee cup obscuring the view)

Running Companion

guest — Mon, 19 Nov 2007 04:52:00 GMT

This weekend my wife and I went on a marriage retreat sponsored by our church. It was the culmination of an eight-week course called "Legacy of Love." We met on Tuesday nights and talked about issues like the fundamental differences between men and women, the different ways in which we hear and express love, and the challenges of meshing differing personality types. There were some 17 couples in the class, married for anywhere from less than a year to nearly thirty, some on second marriages, some with grown kids, some with lots of young kids, some with none. It was surprising how similar our challenges are notwithstanding our differing backgrounds. It's been amusing to note people's reaction when I tell them we're attending a marriage seminar or retreat. Many assume that we must be experiencing some sort of crisis in order to take such measures. In truth, we were there in hopes of making a good marriage better.

The retreat was held at a Methodist conference and retreat center called "Simpsonwood" outside of Atlanta. It's a beautiful 400-acre site that runs along the banks of the Chattahoochee River.

On Friday afternoon the schedule allowed for a few hours of free time, and my wife and I used some of that time to take a run together along the Simpsonwood trails. It's been a late leaf season this year, and this past weekend was the height of color. It was as if God reserved his palate for a weekend when we'd be spending a lot of time outside.

I run quite a bit faster than my wife, which is among the several reasons that we rarely run together. But I wisely concluded that given the focus of the weekend, I could afford to let my wife take the lead and set the pace so that we could stay together. The main trail was marked with white blazes, but at several intersections with other trails the blazes were strangely absent. We would pause, discuss the best route, and push forward. Sometimes we were right, but a few times we ran for several minutes before concluding we were headed in the wrong direction, so we'd backtrack, chose the next most obvious route and press ahead. After a few such wrong turns, we'd lost all sense of how long we would be running, or how long it would take for us to make it make to the room. More than once, we found ourselves covering ground we thought we'd already put behind us, twice passing a chapel that served as one of the few manmade landmarks along the way.

Wrong turns and backtracking normally frustrate me, but this time I didn't care. We had time, it was a beautiful day, and I wasn't alone. I knew that somehow or another we'd make it back. We spent a lot of the time talking about our marriage and the other marriages represented on the retreat, about our kids, our goals and more mundane things like our plan for our oldest son's birthday party the next day. It was a pleasant run. It was a great run, in fact. I have no idea how far we went, and even lost track of how long we ran, but we ran the whole way together, and I was disappointed when we suddenly emerged from the woods and found ourselves back at the dormitory.

Our run was like living out an overly obvious allegory. We had to pace ourselves because we really didn't know how long we'd have to run. We took time to enjoy the natural beauty around us. We didn't get too worried, we cooperated in our decision-making, we never blamed if the chosen path proved to be incorrect. I enjoyed even the wrong turns because I was with her. In fact, as long as I was with her, they weren't wrong turns at all, because she's the one I was ultimately after.

My life is full of "wrong turns", but with a different perspective I suspect that I could receive them more like the ones that I experienced on Friday. The key is to remember what I'm running after.

Can I Do It?

guest — Tue, 13 Nov 2007 02:07:00 GMT

Saturday was my younger son's 5^th birthday. My wife has a tremendous ability to turn even the most mundane of occasions into an event, and so when a birthday rolls around, it's Katie bar the door, we're going to have a party. In addition to the obligatory cake, streamers and invitations, there are elaborate crafts and themes and games that I'm sure both our children and their guests will remember forever. It takes a lot of planning and a lot of work to pull off, so we all woke up Saturday morning giddy with anticipation.

Giddiness quickly turned into concern when my wife informed me that our son didn't seem to be feeling well. I went to see him, and he was lying on the floor, lethargic and a little pale. He wasn't acting much like the birthday boy. Still, the invitations were out, guests were coming, and the birthday train was in motion so we kept trying to convince ourselves that he was okay. "He's probably just tired." "He was up late because he was excited about the party." We were doing a pretty good job of self-delusion until he walked into the kitchen, his eyes bugged out wide, and he emptied his stomach onto the floor. At least he hit the hardwood and not the carpet. My wife went immediately for the phone, and I went for the paper towels. There would be no party on Saturday.

There was a lot of crying, but once that ended we had a muted celebration near the couch that we've designated for sick children (we have far too much use for that couch). He unwrapped a couple of presents with a stainless steel bowl close by just in case. We set him up with a super-hero DVD and found ourselves with a suddenly free morning and afternoon, so I decided to go for a run.

I rarely have as much time as I want to run, so I decided to go further than usual. The longest race I've ever run is a 10K, so I haven't had much need to try longer distances. Back on my birthday in September, I decided to push it a little further just to prove to myself that I was in better shape at 38 than I was at 22 and I ran 7.2 miles. The unconventional distance is due to my most convenient training loop being 2.4 miles (for the math-impaired 2.4 x 3 = 7.2).

So, on Saturday, I decided to see if I could push it further. People who know what they're doing seem to suggest adding distance incrementally, but I decided to see if I could tack on another full loop and go 9.6 miles. I felt surprisingly strong, and even after the 9.6 miles I felt like I could go further. I have been planning to run the Atlanta ING half marathon in March, but during my last loop I started to wonder - can I do the full? Do I have the time? Am I too old to run my first marathon? I'm not yet decided, but I'm starting to lean toward it. A marathon has always seemed liked something that other people do. But I used to feel the same way about 10k's and sprint triathlons. Maybe it's the right time.

Our son got better. In fact, he seemed fine by the time the afternoon rolled around. We rescheduled for Sunday afternoon, and most folks were still able to show. The theme was a super hero training program, and all the kids wore their favorite super hero costume. I explained to the kids that not everyone was fortunate enough to be born with a beneficial genetic mutation, be bitten by a radioactive spider, or exposed to excessive gamma rays. Some of us have to train if we want to become super heroes. I explained that a super hero needs four primary attributes in order to succeed: (1) Speed, (2) Strength, (3) Agility, and (4) A genius-level aptitude in the natural sciences. Because we only had 90 minutes, we focused on the first three.

I set up a relay race, some mock heavy lifting and an obstacle course. The climax was my story about "Dr. Villain" who was denied a party on his 5^th birthday long ago and has now devoted his life to stealing birthday cakes from little boys. There was some skepticism, and a few guests pointed out that they had been to several 5-year-old birthday parties without the appearance of Dr. Villain. I explained that Dr. Villain was no Santa Claus, so he couldn't be expected to appear at every 5-year-old's party. Then I excused myself to have a meeting with the commissioner.

Much to the delight, if not surprise, of my son and his guests, Dr. Villain did appear. He was dressed in black, complete with the bad guy mask. The newly trained super heroes pummeled Dr. Villain with plasma-powered pulsar bombs until he finally relented and fled the scene. He might have fled a little faster, except he was still a little sore from his 9.6 mile run.

Kids are funny. After I had changed back into my civilian apparel, several of them approached me and said, "That was you... I know that was you....That was you, wasn't it?"

The party was a day late, but a tremendous success, as measured by the smile on my son's face. And that's the measure that counts.

As for Dr. Villain, he wasn't born with any super powers, or even an above-average level of athleticism, so if he wants to pull off this marathon, he's got some training to do. I just hope that he uses his power for good.

Trapped

guest — Tue, 06 Nov 2007 13:42:00 GMT

I was a backpacker more than twenty years before I ever entertained the possibility of competing in a triathlon. I was about 13 the first time I strapped two days' worth of food and gear to my back and entered a forest devoid of automobiles, telephones or any responsibility beyond walking to the next spot and preparing my next meal. When I was 16, I spent two weeks backpacking through the gorgeous and immense Philmont Scout Ranch in northern New Mexico where for the first time in my life I saw snow-capped mountains in the summer and ascended to elevations of over 11,000 feet. It was quite an experience for a kid who grew up in the East. Through high school and college my interest became a passion and grew into a need. Every so often, I feel the compelling call to pack my gear, gather some friends, and head into the woods. It's become part of my DNA.

Somewhere along the line it's gotten a lot harder to do. Not physically, but logistically. I often work well into my Friday evenings, attend my kids' sports events on Saturday, have church responsibilities on Sunday, and then enter back into the fray on Monday morning. Most years I still manage a couple of trips into the woods, but it just keeps getting harder. And this year, for the first year I can remember, it doesn't look like I am going to make it at all. I had the trip to the Len Foote Inn that I described in an earlier post, but I'm talking about real backpacking, the kind of trip where there are no beds, no one to prepare my food and no permanent walls separating me from the elements.

(Memories from trips past - the Shining Rock area of North Carolina. Again, I'm the good looking one.)

One of the many things that initially attracted me to my wife was that she'd spent the summer before I met her backpacking in Montana. I hadn't encountered a lot of gorgeous backpackers before I met her, and within 4 months after our first date I popped the question. My gift to her on her 24th birthday was a cold weather sleeping bag, and we spent our first Labor Day weekend as a married couple trekking through the North Georgia Mountains. Then kids came, and now her equipment hangs sadly unused in the basement. We often speak of that evasive "someday" when we'll hike the AT together.

Several of my like-minded friends have organized and invited me on trips this fall, but my schedule does not permit. Today I sit in my glass cage looking out over the heavily wooded city of Atlanta, yearning to get to the mountains beyond.

There's almost nothing about the experience that I don't like -finding a map and planning a route, the obligatory trip to REI to sample new gear and buy high-tech food, driving with friends to the trailhead, the sound of my MSR Pocket Rocket firing up to boil water after the first days' hike. Many of my most profound and enduring memories come from the trail - reclining against a tree during a hundred beautiful sunsets, watching in horror and amusement as a taller-than-expected bear stood up and grabbed our bear bag and helped himself to our food, coming uncomfortably close to death during a surprise spring snowstorm without winter gear.

The experience can be primal and perspective-shaping, pushing me down into the "physiological" level of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. Instead of worrying about whether my 401K investment selections will perform, I'm wondering whether I'll find water before the next camp. For some, that would be stressful. For me, it's a rebirth.

But for this year I'll just have to remember adventures past and start planning for the next trip before another year passes without my waking to the smell of damp leaves and wood smoke, miles away from the nearest artificial thing.

(Dinner on the River in the Pisgah National Forest)

The Baby's Crying

guest — Wed, 31 Oct 2007 00:58:00 GMT

My oldest son's 9^th birthday is coming up on November 22nd. November 22 is a significant date for a number of reasons, both personal and historic. It was the day that JFK was assassinated, the day on which my favorite author died (C.S. Lewis) and it was the day that I realized my life was no longer my own.

I guess I should have come to that realization couple of Novembers prior, when I was married, but I can be slow to learn, and after two years of marriage I was still holding on to some pretty selfish notions of self determination. Once the first baby arrived, all such notions were pried from me. It started right away. After a long delivery (I feel guilty saying that, after all I was just along for the ride, but just ask my wife), we wanted little more than to sleep, but my son had other ideas. He cried until we finally relented and had him taken to the nursery. I've been in a perpetual state of crying babies ever since.

My older daughter followed a mere 19 months after my son, and when my youngest was born we had achieved near perfect symmetry - boy, girl, boy, girl - 6, 5, 2 and new. It's the choice we made, and I wouldn't have it any other way, but sometimes it feels like I haven't had a good night's sleep in 9 years.

Last night was one of those nights. The youngest, now 2, has decided she's done with sleeping, at least when we want her to. We were in bed by 10:00, but she was up periodically throughout the night, screaming like something was horribly wrong, even though it wasn't. On such nights my wife and I fake sleep until one of us finally relents and goes to stop the crying. Last night, as with all such nights, we pull her from the crib and do a quick inventory - no fever, no dirty diaper, her blanket in place. She can talk a little, so I ask her what's wrong. No response. I rock her a little, put her back in bed, ease her door shut and tip toe back to the bed, crawl underneath the warm comforter and no sooner does my head the pillow than the crying starts again. I lost track of how many times she woke up last night. Sometime around 3:00 we finally pulled her into bed with us in hopes she'd calm down. She was happy, but she didn't calm down. She talked, and turned herself horizontal in the bed to make sure she was touching both of us. It's tough to sleep that way. Around 3:45 I couldn't take it anymore so I put her back in her crib. I was angry at her for crying, angry at my wife for giving birth to her, and angry at God for not making it all stop. OK, I'll admit that lose perspective when sleep deprived. As 4:00 approached, I reset my alarm, sure that my planned 5:00 run wasn't going to happen.

At 5:07 the unexplained crying started again and I announced, loud enough for God and my wife to hear, "screw it, I may as well run!" Bleary-eyed after a patchwork night of sleep that couldn't have accumulated to more than 5 hours, I pulled on my running clothes, strapped on my ipod and stepped into the 37 degree air. I ran nearly 5 miles, cooled down, showered, walked my older kids to their bus, and said good-bye to my wife and younger son. All the while the baby was sleeping peacefully, content that her work was done.

It's nearly 9:00 in the evening now and I am still at the office. I started this blog post at lunch and am just finishing this last paragraph while waiting for a document to print, the fruit of a long day's labor. I'll be reading that lease at this same desk in less than 11 hours, before my little girl wakes up (at least permanently). She's been asleep for awhile now, but I suspect that she'll wake up around the time I fall asleep. I'll be honest, it'll be nice to see her. I owe her for getting me up in time for my run, and for reminding me that my life is not my own. I'm kind of glad that it's not.

Active Weekends

guest — Wed, 24 Oct 2007 23:51:00 GMT

Every so often, the stars align and my wife and I are able to schedule a weekend away without the kids. Don't get me wrong, we love our kids, but every once in awhile we need a little separation to help us remember how much we love them. It so happens that we've enjoyed two such weekends in the last month, both of which took us to places I recommend to anyone else interested in an active weekend.

In September we spent two nights at the Dancing Bear Lodge in Townsend, Tennessee, near the entrance to the Smokey Mountain National Park. Dancing Bear Lodge is the relatively new name for the former Maple Leaf Lodge. The new name is taken from a unique painting by William Holbrook Beard featured in the lobby of the main lodge that shows bears frolicking in the woods after a profitable day of business. All of the staff knew the story about the painting, but after repeated inquiries none of them could tell me what the bears had done that was so profitable.

Among the several distinctive qualities of the lodge is that it caters to cyclers and features a nice assortment of hybrids and mountain bikes for rent. The lodge provides bike trail maps and route recommendations, but I suggest talking to one of the cycling-oriented lodge employees for suggested routes. The rental arrangement worked out well for us. I brought my bike, and my wife is testing the waters to see if she wants to pursue the hobby, so we tried out a hybrid rental for her.

The City of Townsend has a bike trail loop that intersects with the driveway to the lodge, and the lodge is also very close to the national park where there are a number of reportedly great bike routes (though other than the Townsend trail, none are dedicated bike trails). On Saturday morning we took our bikes into the park and rode a roughly 11 mile scenic loop trail around Cades Cove where we enjoyed some picturesque mountain views, wildflowers and a lot of deer. I learned that the scenic loop is closed to cars before 10:00 a.m., and I recommend that bikers take advantage of the pre-10:00 hours to enjoy the ride without the crush of traffic. The Smokey Mountain National Park is the most visited national park in the country, and the congestion can detract from the otherwise beautiful park.

After a great lunch in Townsend, we took the bikes on Townsend's bike trail, which is about a 12 mile loop that runs alongside the main highway. Saturday evening we talked to one of the proprietors who recommended some more aggressive routes within the park that we'd like to try next time. For mountain bikers, there are several paths crossing through the lodge property.

The lodge is luxuriously rustic with log-cabin architecture, regionally appropriate furnishings and an excellent chef. If you expect luxury comparable to the Ritz, Four Seasons, or even a nice Marriot, you'll be disappointed. The lodge isn't about expensive fixtures and porcelain, it's just not that kind of place. There are a number of rooms in the main lodge building, and several one and two bedroom cabins, in addition to a separate building for group meetings. We stayed in a one-bedroom cabin that included a kitchen, large tub, deck and outdoor Jacuzzi. The cabins are arranged such that they provide a sense of privacy and isolation despite their relatively close proximity to one another. One criticism is that I felt there was a bit of a disconnect between the very nice main lodge building and the cabins, which had more of a state park feel.

(The Main Lodge Dining Room)

On the whole, the trip was a great mix of rest and active recreation in a gorgeous setting. The two dinners that we ate at the lodge were exceptionally good, and on the second evening we ate outdoors on the deck near a roaring fireplace. The staff reports that the chef regularly rotates menu items, and on the weekend we were there the menu featured an eclectic assortment of tasty meals. The breakfasts were more standard fare, but well prepared.

Driving back to Atlanta after breakfast on Sunday morning, we felt as though we'd spent a week away. We're already looking forward to our next visit.

Last weekend we joined another couple on a quick overnight trip to the Len Foote Hike-Inn at Amicalola Falls State Park in North Georgia. The Inn is theoretically accessible only by foot via a 5 mile trail that starts in the park. The hike provides occasional views of the surrounding countryside, and it was so clear that we were able to see the Atlanta skyline in the distance. The hike is a moderate climb up, but falls short of strenuous, even with a pack. While the Dancing Bear Lodge accomplishes rustic luxury, the Len Foote Inn makes no pretense of luxury. The rooms are tiny and spare, each with built-in bunk beds and a few wooden pegs for hanging gear. There is a bath house with toilets and hot showers, but you have to walk outside of your room to access them. The Inn has a 9-person staff, including a conservationist who leads a daily tour displaying the many environmentally-conscious features of the Inn such as compost bins, non-flush toilets, and rain-water gathering devices for irrigation. I question the timing of a lecture on the value "humanure" immediately before dinner, but it was informative. Despite assurances that it didn't smell, I declined the persistent invitation to smell the sample container of humanure. Presumably because of its commitment to humanure, as well as solar panels and guilt-inducing conservation placards dotting the Inn, the structure has received a LEEDs Gold Certification for its environmental features.

While the rooms are spare, the Inn has a nice game/gathering room with a wrap-around deck affording great views of the mountains. It's rare in this day and age to be in a spot where you couldn't be busy even if you wanted to be. Our cell phones didn't work (and the facility prohibits cell phone use), and there's little to do other than sit on the porch, talk and play games. It's a nice reminder that the simpler pleasures in life are generally the best.

The food is passable, but not particularly notable. For those who enjoy being in the woods, but not sleeping in tents or the hassle of preparing food outdoors, the Inn is ideal. All you need to bring are clothes and toiletries - linens and eating utensils are all supplied. Weekends are apparently already booked through March, but weekdays are available, and there are discounts for stays in January and February.

On Sunday morning after breakfast, we allowed the other guests to check out and leave well ahead of us so that we'd have the trail to ourselves. We sat on chairs near an overlook and enjoyed the morning sun and crisp temperatures for about an hour before finally prying ourselves away and descending the mountain into reality, where cell phones work and stresses abound.

As I sit now looking over a bustling city bristling with cranes and crackling with sirens, horns and lights, I think of the many moments at both the Dancing Bear Lodge and Len Foote Inn where I found myself thinking "I want more of this."

Off the Rails

guest — Tue, 16 Oct 2007 16:15:00 GMT

When it comes to exercise, I occasionally get knocked off the rails. I'll be steaming along at an ever-improving pace, maintaining weight, hardening my body and increasing my general level of fitness when all of the sudden a collision forces me off the track. As I look back I can identify several interruptions of this sort - new babies, relocations, changes in work schedule, illness or injury, the conclusion of a long-planned race. If I don't quickly bring out the pulleys and levers to get myself set back aright, I settle into the mud, making the restart all the more difficult.

In my most recent post I told of my family's struggle with illness last week. As the week progressed and I remained unaffected, I began to feel immune, but I wasn't. Friday evening I was enjoying fine wine and a cigar (uncharacteristic for me, but I was marketing) with some European clients at a posh private club (not my own), feeling pretty good about myself in the moment. A couple of hours after I got home, I woke up with aches and chills and spent the rest of the night trying to convince myself that I wasn't really sick.

By the time Saturday morning arrived, I could no longer deny that I had succumbed to the virus. I arranged for another parent to coach my son's soccer team, wrapped myself in a blanket, lay on the couch and watched college football, drifting in and out of sleep for the next 15 hours or so.

The virus seemed an appropriate physiological manifestation of other things that had plagued me in the week. My car rolled off warranty last year, and so of course I've spent too much time this year carting it to and from the shop. I paid a huge repair bill last month, and last week was told I'd have to pay another one - approaching the value of the car itself. My wife's car appears to be giving up the ghost at about the same time. My son needs expensive medicine that the insurance company won't pay for, so I spent too much time battling with unthinking, uncompassionate bureaucrats. All that on top of the normal issues in a family with young kids - temper tantrums, homework, sibling squabbles. All the while, my work obligations pound like a drumbeat in the background. Saturday morning wasn't the first time last week that I felt like wrapping myself in a blanket and lying on the couch, just the first time I could justify it.

The fever finally relented Monday night and I was able to make it to soccer practice and enjoy some time with the boys. Barring a rainout this weekend, it was our last practice so I wanted to make it fun, and I think it was. I finally felt up to running around a bit myself, so the other coaches and I took on the team and taught them a bit about passing and moving into open space.

Tuesdays are normally my wife's morning to run, but she had kid-related obligations this morning, so I took advantage of the opportunity to get outside. I'm still a little weak, my throat is a tad sore, and I've got dead legs, but it was time to start assembling the pulleys and levers. I took my ipod and set it on "shuffle", which is always an adventure for someone with my eclectic musical tastes. As I climbed the big hill, the violins in Barber's Adagio for Strings were screeching to a crescendo. It was an appropriate (if a bit overly dramatic) selection given the effort it took me to reach the top.

At the half way point of my run I noted that I was well short of my normal pace, but I expected that. For the balance of the second loop I just enjoyed the run, forgot about my time and reflected on recent circumstances in general. I am prone to pessimism, and tend to lose perspective when I hit bumps in the road. Exercise is not the only activity in which I can get knocked off the rails. Running seems to calibrate my emotions a bit, and allow me to see things as they are, rather than as I fear them to be.

As I reached the hill on my second lap my ipod randomly selected the less apt "How Sweet It Is To Be Loved By You" by James Taylor. I love a lot of James Taylor's stuff, but it's not the best workout music. I create my own playlists for workouts sometimes, but that takes away the element of surprise. Sometimes I wish my ipod were a little more attuned to what I am doing.

As I crested the hill and descended the back side with a little less spring in my step than usual, I recognized that I would reach my destination, just not as quickly or in the manner that I had hoped. So also our family will come up with the resources to fix or replace our cars, we'll get the medicine our son needs, we'll all recover from this virus, and we'll absorb the challenges still to come. I believe we serve a God who is mindful of and compassionate concerning our circumstances, and that there are mercies abundant even in the challenges. Sometimes I just need to be reminded of those truths before I spend too much time off the rails and settle deeply into the mud.

Perhaps the randomly selected James Taylor song was more apt than I initially thought, and maybe it wasn't so random.

The Cool of the Day

guest — Wed, 10 Oct 2007 22:23:00 GMT

I love running when it's cool. Sometimes I like it downright cold - layered-up with running tights, a fleece and skull cap, the bracing air against my face. There's nothing like sub-40 degree temps to wake me up in the early morning. Unfortunately, Atlanta has been gripped in a drought, compounded by a hot and lingering summer. We are well into October and still hitting highs in the mid-80's. It feels like July. Based on the Chicago Marathon debacle last weekend, it looks like we're not alone. I've been a little irritable lately, and I think it's because my body clock is calibrated to expect occasional crisp mornings and evenings in late September, followed by a seasonal and lasting temperature drop in October. This extended summer feels unnatural, and my body is out of sync.

The prolonged hot weather hasn't delayed the cold and flu season in our house. Last night we were up with the two youngest, both battling fevers. Normally those middle of the night wake-up calls knock me off my morning training schedule, but I was up and out this morning, in part because I wanted to seize the relatively cooler segment of the day.

In the mornings I usually run a 4.8 mile course that's hillier and more varied than any organized race I'll run during the year. I pass homes, schools, churches and a couple of small fields. The start, mid-point and end of the course is my mailbox.

There's not a lot going on from 5:00 - 6:00 a.m. in our neighborhood other than a few folks walking their dogs, a couple of other runners and the occasional early bird on their way to work. It's the quiet as much as the cool that I enjoy. Unless I wear my ipod, the sounds are limited to my shoes on the pavement and sprinklers running in the pre-dawn hour in violation of the watering ban.

My body creaked a bit at the start, but after a half mile or so I had settled into a familiar cadence of breath and footfall. This morning the sky was clear - Orion high and to the southwest, Venus close to the horizon in the east.

Last night I read the story of the fall of man in Genesis. It's a familiar story - God creates a perfect Eden, places man in it to keep and cultivate, and man screws it up because he wants to be like God. But there was something else I hadn't noticed until last night. Just after Adam and Eve ate of the forbidden fruit, but before their confrontation with God, they "heard the sound of the Lord God walking in the garden in the cool of the day." That passage resonated with me - God enjoying his creation, walking through it in the cool of the day. Adam could have been walking with him, but he was hiding in humiliation instead. His eviction from Eden followed shortly thereafter.

There's a long hill on my run. I used to dread it, but now I look forward to attacking it, to feeling the satisfying burn in my quads and increased heart rate. After I crest the hill, I charge down the other side with loping strides, each step a gratifying reminder that I am healthy and alive, with a loving family waiting at my destination. This morning on the hill, amidst the dark, cool and quiet, a sanitation truck clambered past, lights flashing, leaving the overwhelming smell of exhaust and refuse in its wake. It was a jolting reminder of the heat and toil that the rest of the day promised.

I stopped at my mailbox after the second loop and checked my time. 38:35, just about an 8 minute mile pace. I'd done better, and I'd done a lot worse. After my cool down I stopped at a wide, open place in the road where I could see both the Morning Star and Orion. For a moment I was still. I fixed my eyes on the sky between those two astronomical points and could almost perceive the slow rotation of the earth, keenly aware that I was standing on an anchorless sphere rather than a fixed and immovable plane.

I think we are occasionally given fleeting glimpses of Eden, just to remind us that the best we have here isn't worthy to be compared with what we will enjoy if we stop hiding and start looking. At least that's what I was thinking this morning as I ran toward the garden in the cool of the day.

On Coaching

guest — Sat, 06 Oct 2007 23:49:00 GMT

I imagine that coaching feels a bit liking teaching your kids to drive. You talk to them, you train them, and you test them, but ultimately they've got to get behind the wheel and drive, and there you are in the passenger's seat, virtually powerless and hoping beyond hope that you've taught them well because you're going wherever they take you. My oldest is only 8, so I haven't taught any of my kids to drive, but I am in the midst of second season of coaching his soccer team, and today I paced the sidelines while my team found itself in another fender-bender loss.

I started coaching for the same reason a lot of other parents do - guilt. As I signed my son up for soccer last year I noticed a sign saying that there was some risk of not having enough spaces for all of the interested kids if more folks didn't volunteer to coach. Soccer is the one sport that I feel remotely competent to coach because I played in high school, so I filled-out the forms and committed to one evening practice and one game a week for the next couple of months.

Guilt may have been my immediate motivation, but coaching was something I'd considered for awhile. When I was my son's age I quit playing soccer because of a bad experience with a coach. Back in the days before they were as concerned about equal playing time and inclusion, I was a flower-picking defender for a pretty good team. I lacked aggressiveness, athleticism, or any real sense of the game. We lost the championship game by a goal. I don't remember many details, except that my coach blamed me for the goal and the loss in front of the team and the parents. I was devastated. I didn't play again until my junior year of high school. I wasn't a good player, but I enjoyed being part of a good team. I always wondered what kind of player I might have been if I hadn't quit when I was so young.

I was determined to be a different sort of coach, and have tried to be. My aim is to teach the kids sound skills, and have every one of them emerge from each game with a smile and finish the season feeling like a contributor. It's easier said than done.

Today's game was very physical in the first half, and the refs weren't calling much. At this level, a "physical" game looks pretty awkward. There were a lot of tears and ice packs. It was 0-0 at the half, and I had noted that my guys were letting up to avoid collisions, and consequently missing a lot of scoring opportunities. Teams can respond one of two ways to a physical game - they can use it as a motivator or they can surrender. I spent halftime urging the guys to "finish" and not merely kick the ball toward the other goal and hope something good would happen. I had the team repeat after me "the ball is always ours." Then I got in the passenger seat. I'm really glad that's only a metaphor.

We lost 4-1. The ball was inside our 18 for almost the entire half. They played as if I hadn't said anything at all. They closed their eyes and stabbed their feet at balls while the other team drove the ball toward the goal. They looked scared. The game wasn't nearly as close as the score. They just gave up, and it was frustrating. To top it off, my son was somewhat responsible for two of the goals. A lot of folks think that kid-league coaches have their egos wrapped-up in their team's performance. I'm sure that's true for some, but for most of us I think we feel connected to the kids, usually including one of our own, and we just want them to do well. When they don't, it's hard not to feel like a failure.

As I walked from the field to the bench were we have our post-game meeting, I reminded myself why I was doing this, why they were doing this. It's supposed to be a fun, healthy way to spend an afternoon. They are supposed to make friends, to enjoy the spirit of competition, and to learn some skills. They are also learning how to take a loss. I told them that it was a tough game, but that I was proud of them. I gave each boy a star for something he'd done well. There's always something if you're willing to look. They all smiled as they received their stars, seemingly more concerned about the snack than the score.

I got into the car with my son to go home, trying to think myself out of my frustration. I looked into the rear view mirror - he's too little to sit up front, and I'll be driving for some time now. He's going where I take him.

"Hey bud, did you have fun today?"

"Yea Dad, my favorite part was where we scored a goal."

I hope they all felt the same way.

Thirty Eight is Greater Than Thirty Five

guest — Thu, 04 Oct 2007 17:54:00 GMT

That 38 is greater than 35 is mathematically indisputable. But when you are dealing with age rather than numbers, it's debatable. Most of us stopped looking forward to birthdays somewhere around 21. There aren't a whole lot of age-related perks beyond that. At 25 we can become congressman and our car insurance premiums go down. At 30 we can become senators, and at 35 we can run for President of the United States. But let's face it, most of us abandoned our political aspirations shortly after turning 21 (sometimes for related reasons).

So, for those of us in the large window between 21 and 64 (when I suppose we start looking forward to finally enjoying some return on those FICA withholdings) birthdays are mostly an amplified reminder of our mortality. I recently "celebrated" my 38^th birthday. I use the scornful quotation marks because the last time I felt like I actually celebrated a birthday was 1977 when I unwrapped an X-Wing Fighter and Luke Skywalker action figure before I went to school. Come to think of it, that was an awesome birthday, but I digress.

As I seek to understand what drives me out of bed at 5:00 a.m. several mornings a week, in hot weather and cold, to run, spin or swim before I begin the trek to work there are some obvious answers. I want to look good, I want to be healthy, I want to feel better, it improves my energy level. At core, though, there's something about exercise that makes me feel more alive. And as we march inexorably toward the opposite of alive, I guess we start seeking more and more ways to enjoy and expand the span that we have left.

At some point along the way, I began to realize that exercise was more fun for me if I was preparing for something. I like to feel like I am running toward something good instead of away from something bad. So I signed up for some 10k's, and eventually a sprint triathlon. I detailed my first tri experience in an essay that I linked to my first blog post. I had hoped to follow-up with an essay the following year after competing in the same race, but I ended up missing the race due to an outpatient procedure (talk about your reminders of mortality, but that's another story), and so had to wait until a couple of weeks ago when I again ventured south of Atlanta for the Peachtree City Sprint Triathlon.

Two years ago I went to the race with my friend Matt. This time we had a couple of other friends meet us there, including one I had recruited/encouraged to the sport. For most races in the area, I wake up at 0 dark thirty and drive to the race venue, but for this race I wanted to travel the night before so I could stretch the time I'd get to spend with my friends.

I like to do as well as I can in these races, but I am by no means intense in my race preparation, and ultimately my friendships are more important to me than race results. Consequently, Matt and I enjoyed a heavy Italian meal, a few beers, and watched a hilarious movie until late into the night. My friend Mark stayed with us briefly before joining the more serious guys already asleep in another room. We finally slept, and the alarm rang early.

Matt brewed some really bad coffee while I took stock of my gear, checking and re-checking my race bag. I also started praying that I would be able to take care of business before the race started. I can train all I want, practice my transitions, and visualize my finish - but the bane of my racing existence is having to go to the bathroom during a race. Fully 80% of my pre-race anxiety revolves around that issue, and that Saturday morning was no exception.

I'll leave off most of the details, but suffice it to say that I took care of things as best as I was able at the hotel, mounted my bike and Matt and I rode to the transition area. Mark and my other friend, Jason, were already there. Mark has been my friend for longer than either of us cares to admit. We went to college together, were post-college roommates, met our wives almost simultaneously, and had our first kids and bought our first houses all within weeks of each other. In many ways our lives have been strangely parallel, yet during all of that time I have beaten him in virtually every athletic endeavor we've attempted, until recently.

Mark took up biking just a few months ago, and demonstrated an immediate aptitude for it. Our families vacationed together at the beach this summer, and we went on a couple of rides. It was humbling. He's in another league. I knew that if I had any hopes of beating Mark (it was his first tri) I had to perform impeccably in both transitions and the other disciplines, because he was going to crush me on the bike.

I knew Jason would beat me, even though I don't think he'd competed in anything like this since college. Jason has the build of an endurance athlete and was a Division I college swimmer. He'd made the effort to travel to Peachtree City for a trial run in the weeks leading up to the race. I never had any illusions of matching him.

I'd known all of these guys for more than 10 years, and Mark more than 20. I'd been to all their weddings, known their wives before they were girlfriends, and seen their children grow from infants. We'd helped each other through job losses, faith crises, critically ill kids and provided each other welcome respite from the relentless drum of stresses that assail husbands and fathers. You reach a stage in life where time with friends is harder to come by, but perhaps more important. I've run plenty of races alone, but I remember the ones I ran with friends.

As I found my spot in transition and set up, I began to note some benefits of age. What had seemed alien and complicated two years before seemed comfortable and familiar that morning. Mark, Matt and I gathered in a cluster of similarly-numbered swimmers (Jason was near the front) and waited for the race to start. As we waited, we all commented that the most attractive subset of women at the race were the ones in their early 40's (a benefit of triathlons is that everyone's age is written on their calf). It dawned on me that maybe women in their early 40's have more time to train because they no longer have kids in diapers, but whatever the cause, they were an attractive bunch. I told this story to my wife, and it's the one time she's ever described my noticing other women as "encouraging."

I am quite sure that no one took notice of me in that crowd of flat stomachs and chiseled pectorals, but in the two years since my first tri I had shed 15 pounds and hardened some muscles of my own. I was ready to race, my adrenaline pulsed, the gun sounded... and I had to go to the bathroom.

It was disheartening that my first thought as I entered the water was "I wonder if I can pee?" I couldn't. Better men than I might be able to struggle through the water at their best pace while absorbing blows to the face and still manage to pee, but I am not one of those men. After a modestly successful swim I emerged from the water with a full bladder.

While the bike is by no means my strength, I'd been working on it. Mark had given me some technical tips, and I had greatly enhanced my strength and endurance through some "extreme spin" classes at the YMCA. For the first time in a tri, I felt like I was racing rather than riding through the course. I was passing folks nearly as much as I was passed. But I still had to pee, and I couldn't seem to get it off my mind. On a few of the downhill stretches I stood up and coasted while I tried to take care of it (gross, I know, but I had PR's to consider). At one point about three miles in I was coasting through a long stretch when I found myself nearly alone, and I was just about to take care of it, but Mark suddenly passed me like a rocket, and exhorted me to keep pedaling. I did, but I never caught him. And I still had to pee.

Since the last time I'd run the race, the race coordinators had extended the bike course by about 2 miles. Consequently, it was going to be difficult to compare my times. In my first tri I'd completed the shorter course in 1:33:18. I'd trained more since then, and participated in a couple of other triathlons, so my goal in this longer course was 1:25. But my bladder was starting to cause a real problem.

As I transitioned to the run I finally relented, left the course and ran to the port-a-john against the helpful advice of race volunteers directing me back to the course. I timed my stop at 1:30. Ninety precious seconds in a race where I had goals and pride at stake. I determined to make up some time in the run.

As I ran, I passed several who had passed me on the bike. Halfway in I felt strong enough to pick up the pace, and my watch was telling me I was on track to make my goal. I remembered my first race two years ago - how it had been so hard to simply keep running, fighting the temptation to stop and walk. I was in demonstrably better shape this time, and it was gratifying. Still, it bothered me that I'd given up ninety precious seconds.

I approached the finish at a solid clip, cheered on by familiar voices - Mark and Jason among them. I received my medal, grabbed a bottle of water, and walked toward my friends with a smile. They'd finished stronger (Jason, in fact, finished 3^rd in our age group), but I had finished strong, and it felt pretty good.

We posed for pictures, noshed on the free food, and told stories about our race experiences. We were all smiling, all healthy, all glad to be together.

We're all gaining on 40, and have 12 kids between us. A couple of us have thinning patches on the top of our head. It wasn't on our minds then, but if you catch any of us at the right time, I imagine we could list things we'd hoped to accomplish by now and haven't, adventures we hoped to experience and fear have passed us by. But in the moment captured here, we are young, happy and very alive. There's something enduring in this image, something about brotherhood. Something that will remain.

(Picture courtesy of Matt's wife. I'm the good looking one)

I've turned 38 in the brief time since that race, and I'm trying to view my 38th birthday as a mile marker on a long journey to a welcome destination rather than another turn of the odometer on an aging car. There's something more comfortable, something more familiar about this aging skin, and I've learned a few things along the way - among them that this journey is a lot easier, and a lot richer, with friends.

Oh, my goal? 1:24:57 is less than 1:25, and a lot less than 1:33:18, so maybe 38 really is greater than 35, but next year I'm breaking 1:20.

Buckhead Sizzler and Tri for Tourettes Recap

guest — Wed, 03 Oct 2007 13:19:00 GMT

When I was single (I'll be honest here - desperately single), and visualized what a weekend would look like with a wife and kids, my fantasy looked a lot like the weekend I just completed. Today I find myself wishing that the rest of my life looked a lot more like my weekend.

Saturday morning I awoke at 5:00 to head to the Chamblee MARTA Station in Atlanta for the Buckhead Sizzler 10K with hopes of setting a new personal record. I'd set my previous PR in the same race two years ago when I clocked in at slightly over 50 minutes. Prior to that race, my only 10K experience was in the Peachtree Road Race, which I hadn't so much run as endured several times, so my 50 minute mark two years ago was a quantum leap from prior performances. On Saturday I was looking to do better still. Forty eight minutes was my goal. Everything was aligning nicely. I had slept well, it was cool, and I had no problems getting into a restroom before the start -all things that had hindered me in the past. The gun fired, I shuffled through the first fifty yards or so until the crowd thinned, and then I started weaving my way through the slower runners. I had this notion of running the entire race in timed intervals, but I discarded that after the second mile. I just didn't have enough kick left for the faster intervals, so I settled into my normal run pace. I somehow managed to mess-up my stopwatch, so I was dependent on the volunteers at each mile marker to tell me my pace. At each mile I heard the times I needed to hear. I was on pace. As I turned right off of Peachtree Street onto Piedmont I tried to muster up a good kick, but I was already spent and fortunate to hold on to my pace. The finish is configured such that I really couldn't see the clock until I was quite close to it. I feared I had let my goal slip past. But as I saw the clock it was just rolling over to 47. I ran underneath the banner at 47:17. The official times aren't out yet, but unless they are way off of that mark, I well exceeded my goal. You six-minute milers can chuckle at my modest achievement, but I was ecstatic.

From the finish line, I navigated my way to the car and ultimately to the soccer fields where I coach my oldest son's soccer team. He's 8. He's had a tough couple of years in school, and this past spring he was diagnosed with some learning disabilities. For whatever pain and frustration we endure in life, when we see it played out in our children it's magnified a hundred times. I find myself aching for him to experience success. To compound things, he's perceptive as to where he falls short. Athletics has been a good outlet for him, but like his father, he's not a standout. As a coach and father, the season had been frustrating because the team had yet to win a game, and we'd been shutout in the previous two games. It's not that I hold out winning as an essential element of a positive athletic experience, but let's be honest, it can be pretty demoralizing to never win, and more so to never score. Well, we won. Not only did we win, but my son scored the lone goal on the winning end of a 1-0 shutout, on top of having some nice defensive plays.

Late that evening, after the kids were in bed, my wife and I sat on the deck in front of a fire, recapping the wonderful events of the day. Saturday was a glimpse of Eden.

Sunday started out as it typically does in our house - frustratingly tension-filled as we sought to prepare four kids (8, 7, 4 and 2) for church. As usual, the van ride started out quiet until my wife and I recognized the absurdity of driving to church while harboring feelings of irrational hostility toward one another. I'm blessed with a wonderful wife, and all it takes is a couple of soft comments, a touch, a look and we're back on track. Once we got there, I taught, we sang, we prayed, we learned. It's a good thing to reorient the mind toward higher things, but quite honestly my mind was already on the afternoon's planned activities.

After church my wife and I engaged in the delicate choreography of feeding everyone, delivering a meal to a sick friend, getting our youngest to bed for a nap, getting our third child to his soccer game and our oldest to his first triathlon. I'd like to say it was an unusually busy afternoon, but they're almost all like that. It's the life we chose. The division of labor was such that my wife took the three younger kids to the soccer game. My younger son (4) has demonstrated some surprisingly good athletic ability. I say "surprising" because there's not a lot in his gene pool that would have predicted it. I was a mediocre high school athlete. My wife was an enthusiastic, but not overly acrobatic cheerleader. This is his first year playing soccer, and from the moment he took the field, he showed an aggressiveness and ball awareness that set him above his teammates. He scored three goals in his first game, five in this third, and he scored twice on Saturday. He's in the unenviable third position in our house - two older siblings to answer to, and a cute baby sister stealing the attention. But the soccer field is his domain, and you can see it on his face.

Meanwhile, I was with my oldest son guiding him through packet pickup, body marking, and setting up in the transition area. There are few greater delights in my life than passing on a bit of knowledge and experience to my kids. He stuck close to me until the start, repeatedly asking questions about where he would start, where he would finish, and exactly what he was supposed to do in between. He was every bit as nervous as I was for my first tri, so I talked him through it and ultimately left him alone with the rest of the competitors by the pool. I knew all too well the thoughts that were passing through his mind as he waited for the start.

I found a good spot to watch the swim and readied my camera. My wife and other kids arrived just before he got in the water. One of the many things I love about my son is that he's no slave to peer pressure. It was a zigzag pattern, single start swim, and he watched every single other kid in front of him swim freestyle, but he knows that his best stroke is the backstroke. As soon as he hit the water, he was on his back, stroking with determination. The wonderful volunteers kept him from cracking his skull on the pool wall. I thought he was petering out at the end of the swim, but he sprinted to transition with vigor.

I believe that our kids are, to a large extent, a mirror for their parents. Sometimes the mirror is unflattering. When my children speak in frustration or with discouragement, it's often my words and intonation that I hear, and I cringe. It's apparently the same with biking. In my first, second and third triathlons I performed horribly on the bike. In my fourth (and most recent) I performed pretty poorly. It's not my son's strength either. The bike course was riddled with speed bumps and unlike some of the kids, he didn't see that as a perk. He rode his brakes most of the time, gently easing over each speed bump for fear of falling. I waited for his return to transition for what seemed an eternity. But once he got there, he transitioned quickly and sprinted onto the run course. I took a quick bit of video from that segment, and I attach it here. There was something effervescent about his smile, his confidence, even his stride. He was proud, confident. When he heard us cheer he stepped up his pace, determined to finish strong - and he did. We haven't gotten the splits, but by my calculation he blistered the run.

For whatever strengths I bring to the table as a parent, I lack the natural overt enthusiasm that his mother brings. I met him at the finish with a smile and a hug, but his mother smothered him with embraces and kisses and exuberant praise. He glowed. I've never seen anything like it, particularly not in him. He wore his medal the rest of the day and to school the next day.

I've watched this little video clip over and over again, several times each day since the race. I don't know what it is - the cheers, the smile, the little body striving mightily to do well, but something about it strikes me to the core. I see myself in him, just several stages behind. Like most parents, I want him to experience success, but I recognize that he's got to experience setbacks and overcome adversity to develop into the man I know he can be. On Sunday I saw perseverance in him that encourages me that he'll get there.

So, it was more than a good weekend. It was somehow significant, a benchmark - perhaps mostly for me. I can't pave his paths, I can't make his decisions. He's 8 now, and I've moved from a caregiver to a coach. Like any coach, I'm learning more about the game now than I ever could have when I was playing myself.

In life I seek to spend my time engaged in things that will remain, actions that will echo in eternity. At present I am at my desk finishing-up a day of work, and I have to do that to feed and provide for my family. It's noble and necessary. But when I tabulate the things I do that will remain, I count moments like I had Sunday afternoon, when I took my son to his first triathlon, and he entered as a timid kid and emerged feeling like a champion.

My First Tri

guest — Tue, 02 Oct 2007 13:48:00 GMT

For some time now I have been looking for an outlet for my ruminations on exercise and why we compete. I'm hoping this might provide the outlet I've been looking for. I'm not an elite athlete, not an age group competetive athlete, and have no athletic expertise or insight to offer, but I tend to write stuff that people like to read and that they identify with, not so much about how to become better athletes, but perhaps how to better understand what compels us to compete in the first place. A couple of years ago I ran my first tri, and wrote and article about the experience. It is attached.