We were screaming at the top of our lungs and yelling his name. There was no way he didn't hear us, but it didn't matter. He was focused. He was in the zone. He was in another place and another time. Nothing was going to distract him. On this day, in this race, he would cross the finish line.
He never talked about it before the race. He's never talked about it since. Anyone who was there, though, saw the unmistakable look of a man facing down a memory that had haunted him for years. It wasn't simply a matter of finishing a 5K. It was setting the record straight once and for all.
It started for him exactly one year before. He was at that same race and cheered for his grandson, son and wife as they completed the Columbus Marathon relay. He saw the look on his wife's face as she crossed the finish line. He saw the three of them walking back to the hotel arm in arm. He saw the satisfaction in their eyes. He vowed then to cross the finish line himself the next year.
So he trained for the next 12 months. He began his career as an athlete at 70 years of age, and a heart patient of almost 35 years. He got the clearance from his doctor and started the long, slow process of changing the body that had imprisoned him into the body that would free him from his bondage.
As he would discover, it doesn't really matter when you start the process of finding yourself. The results are always the same. Parts of who you are make you proud and parts embarrass you. Parts are known only to you, and some parts even you can't see. But the search is worth the effort; your feet can carry you directly to your soul.
So, day after day, he walked. At first his form was clearly that of an old man held hostage by a heart that had failed him in the prime of his life. He was tentative. He was fearful. He listened carefully to the sound of his own heart beating, as if to make certain it would not let him down.
As the weeks and months passed, the transformation became obvious. No longer content to simply shuffle around the mall or the track, he began to push his pace. Although he intended to walk, every now and then he'd break into a run in spite of himself. Through the spring and summer he added distance and speed. He stuck to his training plan as if it was sacred.
With the coming of autumn, his thoughts turned to his November 3rd date with history. There were shoes to break in, technical running gear to buy and a race strategy to devise. Like a seasoned veteran, he planned for the ideal race day, his probable day and a doomsday scenario. Armed with months of preparation and planning, all that remained was putting his feet to the pavement.
On race day he was calm in a way that surprised us. There was no fear, really... just the deep concentration that comes from knowing exactly what you want to do. Taking the relay handoff, he settled quickly into his pace. Without looking back, he set off to find the finish line and whatever else he was searching for.
My guess is that he found it, although we don't know for sure. Men of his generation don't share those personal feelings easily. But I think he answered some old questions and, in doing so, maybe found that there was more strength in his heart and more power in his soul than he ever imagined.
We're proud of you... Dad.
Waddle on, friends.