Dear Dad

The grown men went streaking by the young children.

Oh crap...let's start again.

The multi-colored peloton blew past Jesse and I, leaving nothing but a gust of wind in its wake. It was 1991, so I guess we were 5 and 3, respectively. Or, in the case of Jesse's face, disrespectively. Microsoft puts a red underline under that last word, so those programmers must have never seen Jesse's face.

Anyway, as the cyclists blurred into the distance, Mom's face puckered into a look of apprehension. She whispered at the mirage fading into the distance..."Where's Michael?"

Jesse and I had no such doubts about Daddy. We went to hundreds of bike races, and we were never good at spotting Dad's red and white jersey in the crowds of florescent pro cyclists. Mom, though....she never failed in the spandex Where's Waldo. Suddenly...somehow...she just knew. With her sixth (or seventh) sense tingling, Mom loaded us into the Econoline van.

That weekend, and that year, you were on a fucking roll. As a 39-year old, you were at the top of the standings at the Superweek Bike Race in Wisconsin. You were an engine attached to two well-shaved pistons, sneakily sitting in the pack until that decisive moment when the pre-race pancakes gave you the power to kick it into high gear. In case you couldn't tell from my Hot Wheels collection, I really liked cars as a 3-year old.

So Mom loaded us into the van, a vehicle designed for a young family, or a mystery-solving dog. I wasn't worried though. If there was one thing I was sure of, it was that Daddy was invincible. After winning this race, you would probably hop off your bike, grab a Coke, then play hours of baseball with us. So as the van came upon the flashing lights, I was obliviously clutching my Hal Morris-signature glove (the most forgettable signature in the entire glove kingdom), wondering when we were going to get to the field.

Mom dismounted off the front seat, sticking the landing like the gymnast she was as a kid, and sprinted towards the lights.

"Ma'am, we took a rider to the hospital...


...it doesn't look good."

Under the lifeless florescent lights, Daddy did not look invincible. A roided-up pro had hooked handlebars with your 1st-generation all-carbon Trek, and ridden you off the road at 30 miles per hour. That is one tactic to stop the star of the peloton, I guess (he must have idolized the Russian from American Flyers). Your lungs collapsed, many bones broke, and your shoulder...well, your right shoulder appeared to no longer exist.

Mom is so good in a crisis (we tested this hypothesis many times in the years since), and she immediately began whisking us away. As we reached the precipice of the door, I turned around, scared out of my chubby, curly-haired, 3-year-old wits. Just then, you opened your eyes, saw that crying cherub, and smiled. That smile moved to my face. Everything was perfect. Daddy was invincible.

Usually, the story would have a disclaimer at this point, narrated by Morgan Freeman: "It was a long, winding road back..." But fuck that, and fuck Morgan Freeman, because this road was short, and soon enough you were back on it, tearing down the road with your arm in a sling.

You were never going to bike race again? Fuck that, you came back the next year stronger than ever, placing in a domestic pro race as a 40-year-old.

You were never going to lift your arm above your shoulder? Double fuck that crap, you probably threw me 1 million pitches of batting practice after the crash.

Things wouldn't be the same? Triple fuckshit, you came back so fast that the accompanying movie montage would not have had enough time to get to Oates after Hall belted out the opening verse.

21 years later, the chubby cherub has grown up a bit. And everything you did since the crash, all of the adversity you overcame, shaped my outlook on the world. Thousands of hours of batting practice taught me hard work, and it taught me that love is throwing just one more bucket of balls through throbbing shoulder pain. It also taught me to hit pitches that moved 2 feet, because your reconstructed shoulder seemed to make your pitches possessed by the Devil (a Yankees fan, certainly).

Thousands of hours on the bike, riding at your side, taught me strength, and it taught me that friendship is cussing at someone for an unexpected acceleration, then high-fiving after a record two-person time trial. It also taught me to withstand the smell of a truly horrible baked beans fart (also Devilish).

Most of all, though, thousands of hours with the best dad in the whole world taught me what it means to be a man. You taught me the easy things, like character, empathy, and caring. And you taught me the hard things, like faith, optimism, and rooting for the Orioles. In the decades since that nearly life-ending crash, you taught me everything about being alive.

So now, 21 years later, I owe you everything. Dad, you are the best person I have ever met, and my best friend. Now, my best friend faces new adversity, this time in the form of a slow-motion crash into a shitty diagnosis. Cancer sucks, surgery sucks, and the Yankees suck (unrelated, but a necessary point). But I have watched you come back to national-class cycling less than a year after almost dying on the road. I have watched your fastball pop from an arm that was left for dead. And, for 23 years and 364 days, I have had a front row seat to watch you make the world an infinitely better place just by being yourself. So after all this time watching and learning, there is one thing you don't have to teach me. There is one thing I know for sure.

Going into tomorrow, after 24 years, the one thing I know for sure is that Dad is invincible.

Love,
David

XTERRA Balarat Trail Half-Marathon Race Report

Executive Summary:
1st overall by 9 minutes in 1:22:05 (over great person/runner Chris Grauch, who recently finished 2nd at the Boulder Half-Marathon). Whenever I first come out to Colorado for the summer, I forget what it's like to race above 8,000 feet. Hint: it's not good when you can taste pennies. Hemingway said that's what death tastes like.

In olden times, I remember going up hills on the bike part of races, hating life/gravity, and swerving to hit every pebble in the hopes of getting a flat tire. Unfortunately, that is not an option when running. But there were tons of warnings about mountain lions at today's race, and I was ready to apply the same tactic if I saw a cougar.

"Is that your cub? Because it looks like Simba had a love child with Pumbaa."

/slaps lion with hamburger

Each dolphin voted twice in the Russian Presidential election.

Pre-Race:
I just started working at EarthJustice, which is an amazing/inspiring public interest environmental law firm. And it is decidedly better than EarthInjustice. However, the big-firm bros don't have to worry nearly as much about student loans, which are like IOUs. Well, they are like IOUs except that the person you owe might double interest rates every few years because of a dogmatic pledge authored by a person named Grover. NEVER TRUST ANYONE NAMED GROVER.

What is he hiding under that faux manchu?

Anyway, the People's Republic of Boulder is amazing. This can be quantified by my handy formula:

CITY AWESOMENESS = (# of Whole Foods' within a 10-mile radius) - (# of Confederate flags within a 5-mile radius X infinity)

As you can see, Boulder scores 7, and Mississippi scores lower than Syria.

Okay, the formula might need some work. But Boulder is great, and the people/places are incredible. Jogging has been great as well, so I was really excited to race. XTERRA half-marathons are often very competitive, and there is something about being on Colorado trails that makes the taste of pennies delightful. (Note: Initially, I posted this with a very unfortunate typo in the last sentence).

So I traveled to Balarat (about 20 miles N of Boulder) off of some really exciting track workouts, and really filling trips to Whole Foods. I eat enough kale and quinoa that if I can ever afford a Prius, I will be banned from ever driving into a red state. Even if my driving is disturbingly quiet.

Warm-up, see some long-lost friends, ask one of said friends to dump ice water on my back, AND THEY'RE OFF!

Those are piglet Hokas.

Race:
It was hot and sunny in the high-country, introducing a very high probability of sunburn. If there is anywhere to get burned, it's in Boulder, because melanoma sounds like something that the locals would treat with trips to one of the many dispensaries.

Anyway, the race started up a 500 foot climb, with bunches of switchbacks. I was able to do some reps up a local hill (Mt. Sanitas) on Memorial Day, so I fell into the somewhat familiar rhythm of taking small, bouncy strides. Chris stayed on my tail for the first bit, then he dropped off slightly (probably water dumped on my back + hot sun = squiggly smell lines that may be strong enough to open up a wormhole, thus proving string theory).

Irrelevant, but important.

When I couldn't hear his breathing, I decided to make a go of it. That is probably not a smart thing to do halfway up a hill, a half-mile into a half-marathon. But racing intelligence is not my strong suit (girl, my strong suit is hearts), so I turned it up to eleven and red lined. After a quick, treacherously switchbacking descent, the course opened up on a dirt road. As the course continued down, I tried to use the good footing to get as close to 4:30 pace as possible. By the mile 3 aid station, the awesome volunteers said there was no one in sight, so I let off the gas just a little (that is not to say I wasn't farting every chance I got).

After some rolling single-track, the course bottomed out around mile 5, with an 800-foot climb on the horizon. Dehydration began to kick in, and I started to feel very warm on the uphill. At that moment, dazing off in my own little world, I missed the aid station. Poop! I thought. However, the amazing volunteer cut a switch-back, and handed me a refreshing cup of water.

Of course, I dropped it. Oops. I survived the long climb, and continued the sprint downhill/survive uphill tactics for a couple miles. By mile 9, we joined the 10k course, and some awesome encouragement made me forget about kidneys doing a prune impression. The final climb was over a recently burned-out pine forest, and the sun got a little crazy. I survived to the finish because of some over-the-top cheers, and crossed the line in 1:22. Hopefully I will be able to pee sometime today.

Thanks so much to the volunteers and spectators at XTERRA Balarat. You guys really helped when the going got tough. Sorry if I hallucinated and slapped you with a hamburger. And thanks to you for reading! You guys are awesome :)