Father

I have a number of friends who have become fathers in the past year, either for the first time or in a relapse (you know who you are). My brother is celebrating his 6th Father's Day.

I want to recognize my own father and wish for each of you that you can be this kind of model for your children. And since I forgot to buy and send a card in a timely fashion (y'know, cuz I'm an awesome son and Father's Day is a tough holiday to keep on the radar) and our call this morning was cut short due to the absolutely abysmal cell reception in York Beach, Maine (yeah, I'm calling you out York - get with the program here!), I thought a timely blog post would be in order.

For those of you who don't know him, my father is a big man. Not as big as I am, and he's certainly gotten physically smaller over the years as he deals with a number of health issues. But I remember him as being big, able and anyone who has ever known him would agree that he's big in personality and of character.

My brother and I grew up in a home filled with love and we were fortunate that both of our parents were able to spend an inordinate amount of time with us. Since they were both teachers, we were all on similar schedules and I remember them being very involved with everything we did. I took it for granted that parents were always at sports and band and plays and school things and whatever else, because my parents were.

My father coached us from an early age, serving as the coach of various sporting teams - soccer, little league, basketball, hockey. And it was hockey that we fell in love with and that consumed immeasurable time of my father's schedule. But he never complained (or never let us hear?) and (seemed to) enjoyed it.

It wasn't until years later that I fully appreciated how much of a commitment that was and how unusual. I don't know that I can fully appreciate it even now.

As an electrician, Dad worked big construction when he was younger. But a dip in the construction market came as he was starting his family. While the pay might not have been as good, teaching was consistent and it gave him summers off. I remember years when my father worked all summer doing side wiring jobs. Those were interspersed with summers where he didn't work at all and we took epic, once-in-a-lifetime trips.

My father's work ethic and desire to see more took us up and down the eastern seaboard a number of times, through some of the biggest national parks, cross-country, to Hawaii for a month, and to Bar Harbor, one of our favorite places to go and home to one of our favorite hikes - The Precipice.

As much as my brother and I give him a hard time for his collection of truly terrible jokes (what's a Henweigh?), he has a wonderful sense of humor and a playful, pranking side that either rubbed off on or exacerbated my mother's mischievousness.

My father loves to tell us how uncreative he is and that my mother, brother and myself are the creative ones. Yet over the years I have watched him as a photographer, a potter, a tailor (and a frigging good one, too - he hemmed and mended all of our clothes growing up), a cook, a mechanic, a designer, upholsterer, game designer (for a host of custom-designed learning games my mother devised for her classes), landscaper and farmer. While he may not draw or write, I truly do not know many artists that can claim to be as creative as my father.

I could fill a book with the things he taught us over the years, but perhaps the greatest thing was that he showed us what it meant to be a man - kind, compassionate, hard-working, patient (I can say patience beyond reason is one of his virtues after having dealt with our nonsense over the years), strong, principled, clever, earnest.

This is to say "thank you" to my father and "happy father's day" and to wish that those of you who are fathers can take some of those qualities on as you raise your own children. 

Rolled

It's like that. Two weeks into healing a sprained ankle and going stir-crazy as I watch beautiful weather pass me by.

Here's what happened:

I'd been racking up pretty good mileage and trying to incorporate trails into my Saturday long runs. I was up to 5+ miles and decided to do a loop from Redbank, out around the far end of the Jetport, and down into Stroudwater to pick up the Fore River trail head and loop back up along the River's edge. This was the same loop I'd run the previous week and had some trouble with keeping my bearings and wanted to give it another shot.

It was a good run. I left the ear goggles at home and was running at my own pace. I kept up a slightly harder than easy pace, navigating heavy traffic on the roads and then switching to a solid pace on the undulating terrain of the Fore River trail. In spite of the beautiful weather, no one seemed to be out on the trail and I was enjoying the solitude. I'd found a good rhythm, working over hills and through breathlessness in a peaceful mind and keeping up the running without feeling I had to stop for a rest.

As I neared the junction where I'd veered off course the previous week, I was in good spirits and confident, taking stock and thinking that I might actually push the run over six or possibly even seven miles (a length I'd not managed since high school). I felt good.

I made it past my previous wrong turn still feeling good and at the next trail head veered onto pavement for a moment before realizing I was looking to connect with the next trail head up. I quickly backtracked, got on the trail again, negotiated a short set of stairs in poor repair, through a small field and plunged back into the woods.

The slight downhill grade was nothing and I was still in that solid stride, when

BAM!!!

Down I went. I'd stepped on a stump (I think), my foot rolling inside and the ankle rolling out. I saw stars. Searing pain shot up through the arch of my foot, circling the extra bones in my feet that have been a lovely evolutionary gift over time. My knees buckled and I hit the deck, barely getting my hands out in front of me to break the fall.

In a split second my run was over.

After swearing for a few minutes, holding my knee (yup, I did that; I can only justify it in that I couldn't reach my foot, so I guess my knee would do), I started to take stock:

• I was probably three or four hundred yards past the last trail head and the next one was probably another 3/4 mile further on; 
• I'd not seen a single other person out on the trails that morning and was now deep behind industrial parks, not residential areas. It was unlikely anyone was coming along anytime soon. 
• I had no signal where I was - my initial text to my wife came back "did not send" or something equally maddening. 

Lovely.

I tried to stand and put weight on my foot. NOPE! Nopenopenope. Fuck. This was going to suck.

Determined not to crawl the several hundred yards back to pavement, I found the thickest and tallest fallen branch I could (it was all new growth so "slim pickings" is an apt descriptor on a number of counts), broke off smaller twigs and used it as a sort of 1/2 walking stick. It was damp and brittle, so it didn't take much weight, but I was able to offset enough weight to limp out and used the stick to balance on my hops.

Back at the trail head, I realized the road was all uphill and groaned. I seemed to have a signal now, but it was early enough that Becca had gone back to bed and apparently turned off the ringer. Several tries via phone and text yielded nothing. Crap.

I started hobbling up the road to get to Congress Street, hoping for Becca to wake up and come pick me up. I knew that as much as my foot and ankle hurt like hell, it really wasn't a 9-1-1-worthy injury. And I also knew that without Becca seeing my texts, I was looking at either a long, exceedingly painful limp home (probably 2 miles or so), or potentially hitch hiking, the prospects of which I didn't hold high hopes for (seriously, would you pick up a 6'2", overweight man profusely sweating, covered in trail detritus and carrying a random 5-foot stick? I sure as hell wouldn't).

It wasn't until I'd reached Congress St. (and tried Becca's cell several more times) that Uber occurred to me. I'd already thought about trying to call a cab, but I had no currency - just my phone - and dismissed the thought. But then Uber came to mind.

"Oh God, that would be amazing!" I thought. I'd never used it before but knew how it worked and had read plenty about it.

"If only I had Uber, I could get a ride and be home in minutes. If only...." my thought process went. "If only...wait. Wait a minute. Uber is mobile-native. I wonder if I have enough of a signal to download it here? But what about payment? Oh right! It's all handled in the app through ApplePay, isn't it!?"

There was a glimmer of hope. I sat precariously down on the beautifully lush and manicured lawn of some nameless company in the shade of a lovely maple and fished out my phone.

Minutes later, the app was installed, the payment was set up, and an Uber driver (Bruce, Ford Escape, 5 min.) was en route. I was saved.

Within 15 minutes, I was limping through my kitchen to fetch the frozen peas and the ibuprofen. I knew it was bad and I was in for a weekend of vintage anime and R.I.C.E.

As of today, I'm two weeks into rehab. I'm able to walk for 30 minutes at a time but running still shoots lighting through the arch of my foot. The peace of mind I have from running is seeping away and my challenge now is maintaining my patience so that I don't try to run again too soon and cause more damage.

My personal records now involve being able to take the dogs for a walk without the ankle brace, making it a whole day without limping, and keeping the ibuprofen to a minimum.