Snapshot from the past

I remember my first 5-mile run so clearly.  I was 14 and training for my first year of cross country.  I had only recently finished my first 5K race, and was eager to get good enough to make the varsity squad.  My father, I remember, followed my progress with a quiet enthusiasm.  We had always been rather alike in our mannerisms and personalities, he and I, so when I made my first foray into distance running he began to tell me how far he used to run before his knee surgery.  It was fascinating and fun for me to imagine that perhaps heredity had ingrained in me the mysterious love of running far and fast.  Sometimes he mentioned  to me that he thought he might be able to run again, as long as he took it easy.  Still, it took me by surprise when upon declaring my intention to run 5 miles, he said he'd come with me.

We decided to run from our house to the lighthouse at the end of the 7-mile long barrier island where we lived.  The distance, my dad told me assuredly, was almost exactly 5 miles.  We enlisted the help of my mother to pick us up at the end of our run and thus began our trek to the end of the island.  Strangely enough, we were a well-matched pair--he with his caution about his knee and I with my slight anxiety at running a distance I'd never attempted before.  It was early evening and still light out when we started.  The pace was slow and relaxed, and I concentrated on listening to the rhythm of my dad's footsteps to keep myself from getting carried away with a pace I couldn't sustain.  We talked and laughed, and the first few miles flew by with an ease I didn't think was possible.  I remember the sound of our combined footsteps--his a little heavier and controlled, mine light and unsure.  I remember coming to the 4th mile just as the night was falling and the first stars began to appear.  I remember the sudden burst of energy flowing through my veins near the end as enthusiasm got the best of me and I sped ahead.  Most of all, though, I remember the connection we established.  My relationship with my mother had always been straightforward.  She never minced words and loved us with an unmistakable fervor.  My dad, however, had always been subtler.  Sharing a moment with him had always been harder, his emotions hidden beneath an impenetrable calm.  That night, though, the simple act of running brought us together.  There were no barriers, just a father and a daughter victorious in their shared quest.

Sometimes it's not the actual runs, rides, and swims we remember, but the people we share them with.  Endurance training can be monotonous and unmemorable, but in the black-and-white of our memories some moments stand out like a Technicolor dream.  These moments are what make training--and living--worthwhile.  I can't speak for everyone, but a single vivid memory can stay with me for a very long time.    A stellar race, a hilarious workout with a large group, a moment--even if it's fleeting--shared with someone who means something to you.  So much can get lost in the repetitiveness of distance running and triathlon training, and undoubtedly there are many things we'd like to forget as both athletes and individuals.  Life is just a collection of big and small moments, an album of snapshots that can be lost or recalled. What will you remember?