This One's For You, Dad!

Dad and Mom dancing at my wedding to Amy in 2019.

Let's get this out of the way right now. I don't like the Sycamore 8 and it doesn't like me.

But we made peace with each other this year because I dedicated this race to my father who passed away on October 31.

Why the Sycamore 8?

Dad was not a runner.  Being gifted with numerous athletic talents, he never saw the need.  But had he been a runner, I've no doubt that he’d have been a trail runner.  I say that because Dad was an avid outdoorsman.  He took every opportunity enjoy the forests of Western Oregon. I cannot begin to recall all the times I rode with him along the unnervingly narrow gravel logging roads to take in everything from mountaintops looking like islands peaking above a sea of thick fog to hearing a bull elk bugling during their rutting season to stopping to pick wild elderberries for Mom to use in a pie.

That is indeed the tip of an antler from a 5-point bull elk my father shot in this 1995 photo.

Another reason I chose the Sycamore 8 is because this race my most challenging race.  That’s what my father was all about.  He didn’t come from the best of backgrounds.  Truth is, he never finished high school.  But that never stopped Dad from seeking to better himself.  Case in point, when a recession slammed the timber market, leaving Dad laid off from one of the nearby mills, he taught himself to weld, opening a series of other employment doors.  From there, he also learned to read blueprints and soon became the person at his company who would bid jobs for remodeling sawmills.

What Does Dedicating a Race Mean?

I didn't know. I'd never done it before.  I knew what I wouldn’t do.  No way was I wearing his work boots or heavy hunting jacket.  No chance in hell that I’d race in his God-awful bright orange Oregon State baseball cap.  Nor would Elvis Pressley or Buddy Holly bump the Smiths or U2 off my playlist.

What I actually did was simply think about my father throughout this race. When a stupid-fast start elbowed me into the "pain cave" before completing the first mile, I heard his voice telling me to "suck it up" because I still had seven miles to go.

Gee thanks, Dad.

But it was more than that. Throughout the race, I found myself experiencing moments where I channeled his spirit and what he taught me. There were several times the trails took me up and down short, but steep sections with rocks jutting out, just inviting a runner to trip. Instead, I recalled what he taught me years ago about navigating rough terrain.

Ditto when I encountered several fallen logs across the path. No way did I stop to climb over them. I could sense him watching as I maintained momentum, making it over each with no more than one or two steps.

Perhaps the most notable aspect of my father's presence came when I saw other runners coming towards me on the path. Being somewhat of an out and back course, the narrow trails made this a bit of a challenge that would have typically sparked fires of frustration for me. But this time, I just eased to the side, letting the other runners maintain the trail - even though I was well ahead of them. It meant a greater risk of stumbling and falling. But it also seemed the right thing to do and if I remembered what Dad had taught me, I had little to worry about in terms of maintaining my footing.

This picture of my father was taken at graduation from Western Oregon State in 1984. I can't tell if his smile is pride or relief that he won't need to help pay for any more semesters of college.

That same spirit also had me move aside to allow two runners to pass me around mile six. Given how quickly they moved away from me, I knew I'd made the right call.

When I used to accompany Dad on his elk hunts about 20 years back, I'd marvel at how he seemed to know every other hunter in those mountains. I'd joke with him later that thanks to his talking with everyone, they'd given all the bull elk ample time to move at least two mountain ranges away. But my father saw it differently. For him, it was the opportunity to connect with others who shared his love of the outdoors and hunting.

I bring this up as Dad's words carry a greater resonance with me now, as I realize how much I truly enjoy talking with everyone before and after races. Those I know and those I'm meeting for the first time. We're all there because we love running - just as Dad and all those others were out in the middle of nowhere because of their passion for hunting.

Thanks, Dad. You're still teaching me what I need to know.

My smile is clearly because I know I've less than a mile to go!

But There Are Differences

When it was all said and done, I finished 22 out of 111, winning my age group. My time lagged behind last year's, but I'm not beating myself up too badly over it since my overall place is just behind last year's.

I didn't know how'd I finished until I got to the awards event at a delightful bar called Goodsons. It was there I thought again of my father. As I ordered a bowl of hot chili while waiting for the festivities to commence, I recalled that Dad loved Bud Light. No way - no how could I ever get him to like any other kind of beer. (And believe me, I tried.) For a moment, I pondered the question. I ran this race for my father. Should I just bite the bullet and order a Bud Light?

Sigh. As much as I miss him, there are just some things that I can't do. Instead, I ordered a hearty stout to sacrifice a few brain cells.

Sorry, Dad. But no "Bud Light."

This One's for You, Dad!

This year's Sycamore 8 wasn't my fastest race or my most enjoyable. And that's okay. I believe that a challenging one is a more suitable tribute to a man who worked hard for so much of his life.

What about you? This was my first time dedicating a race to someone. I would be interested in hearing from those of you who have done likewise. If you wish, you can share your thoughts in the comments below or on Facebook

When I was a kid, I really did not want this guy mad at me.