A father's introduction to joy

Running is one of my great passions, but isn't something I have done consistently. Certainly running is associated with the better parts of my life. I have run when discovering and rediscovering myself. And I have run in the most beautiful places in the world: Paris, the Outer Banks of North Carolina, Holland, Bermuda, San Fransisco, Tuscany and other places I can't even remember.

But the majority of my runs - like most everyone - have been based around areas where I have lived, and the vast majority of the time I run alone. My earliest memories of running, however, involved my dad. I can't say how old I was, but I do remember a few things vividly.

My father had an amazing long stride - at 6'2'', it seemed like he could glide down the road with hardly any exertion. I can picture his muscular legs, pale and freckled like mine but much longer and leaner.

Sometimes we would take the meandering fire trails that emptied out onto Morgan Mill Road across from the cornfields. Other times we would follow the roads all the way down to the reservoir. Coming back up was always tough, but my father never made me feel guilty for needing to walk. "You're doing great!" he would say with a grin and a big thumbs-up.

During these breaks we would explore small streams that ran along the roadside, finding tadpoles and turtles, and making dams. This extra exploration time is what I kept in my heart, rather than how guilty I may have felt about making him stop during the run, or how sore I was the next day.

And I remember he never pressured me to run - he just asked. I felt so proud to join him, and to share in something that obviously brought him joy. I had always felt comfortable in his presence anyway. He was quiet and introverted, like me, and felt happiest outside.

In middle school, my running tapered off due to lack of interest. I was becoming the socially-awkward and generally sub-happy teenager I would act as until college. Once at UMBC, I found running again, and not coincidentally, pieces of a happier self.

I couldn't run with my father at this point since knee problems had him turn to trail biking. I didn't miss our time alone together terribly - I was enjoying the introspective time running afforded me. I would occasionally bike with him, so it wasn't as though we were never together. Besides, I thought we had all the time in the world.

When I got married for the first time and moved to the city, my running again became inconsistent. When I got divorced just three years later, it would have been great to get out there with Dad, to blow off some steam and to once again be safely quiet. Unfortunately, in that short time, Alzheimer's had claimed him and had nearly eliminated his workouts.

After his death in 2000, I stopped running entirely for a time. It wasn't that without him I was uninspired. I exercised in other ways, but for some reason I felt I needed a running break. It wasn't until J was born that I rediscovered the feeling of joy putting one foot in front of the other. I joined a running group, and began racing again.

I didn't think then of how it had all begun, though I did wish my father could join us as I pushed J's stroller through trails and parks. As I identified birdsong or types of trees for her, I was vaguely aware that I was parroting information my dad had shared with me in similar circumstances.

When I completed my first half-marathon, after my mother's death in 2007, I pictured my parents near the finish line, set apart from the cheering masses. They were holding hands quietly, smiling at me for encouragement. That image pushed me to a strong finish even as it made me weep with longing and sadness.

It wasn't until I recently came upon a blogger who is also a serious distance runner that I thought again about my running memories with Dad. The blogger remarked that his daughter - six years old like J - asked to run with him last week, and he was thrilled at her interest. I wish I could tell him not to worry that he tried too hard with his son. And he shouldn't worry whether or not his daughter will find her own interest in running. He should feel at least a modicum of peace knowing that the shared experience of such a physical activity, at times both grueling and joyous, can truly be the gift of a lifetime. He has given his kids an entree into an active lifestyle, a way to help them cope with distress, a means of learning about nature and the depths of their own character.

Most importantly, the positive feelings a child has when sharing time with his or her father are priceless building blocks for a strong sense of self. And those common memories? His daughter will likely carry them in her heart, like a soft and sweet summer morning, her whole life.