Maybe it's the holidays or maybe it's the egg nog, but I'm getting seriously sappy thinking about the awesome collection of people I am lucky enough to call my family. I mean, I spent the morning making pasta with my dad and joking with my sisters. Now, I am having a "writing sesh" with my brother. ("Writing sesh" for me means blogging, sometimes about running. For my brother, it means assembling a scrapbook displaying his global rock climbing adventures. He will later give this scrapbook to my parents. It's his annual yuletide trump card.) Either way, it's not even noon and I feel drunk on happiness and family love. I could go on and on describing my wonderful and unique and downright rad family members, but today is all about Grandpa.
To put it simply: Grandpa is the fucking man. I don't really know how else to sum him up. (Sorry, Grandpa, for using a curse word. Fucking, when used as an adjective, is a superlative: it indicates something really, really awesome or something really, really terrible [awesome, in this instance]. It's a word you use when no other word will do; when no other word is good enough. So calling you the fucking man really means Grandpa, you are a man whose wonderful qualities are superior to those of other men. Now that you're hip to the modern vernacular, let's continue.)
In my mind, my grandfather is tall; taller than most other grandpas I've met. (I'm also 5'1", so my view is skewed.) Because he's also generally quiet, Grandpa sometimes seems stoic. He's not. While Grandpa isn't a chatterbox like my grandmother, he is relatively conversational. But he is also a fantastic listener. Grandpa loves to hear about all of our adventures. Whether we are living at the top of a mountain waiting for enough snow to open Mt. Crested Butte (my Uncle Tom), driving across the country and being a migrant laborer to pay the way to the next stop (my mother) or climbing up the baddest rock walls in the Argentinian Patagonia (my brother), Grandpa is eager to hear all about it. The best part is he's so genuinely excited for us. Proud of us, too. For the past two generations, my various family members and I have ventured down some of the more random, bizarre and sometimes physically demanding roads life has to offer. Each and every time, Grandpa has stood on the sidelines, unfazed, cheering us on in his own quiet way.
Grandpa is amazing because he is our biggest supporter. He's also the most kindhearted person, too. If Grandpa notices the treads on your tires are looking a little, well, bare, it's not uncommon for him to show up with a new set of Michelins for you. Really. I'm pretty sure 75% of what occupies Grandpa's brain is how he can help others. 10% of his thoughts are probably related to his extensive group of friends and the remaining 15% is spent thinking about tennis. And that brings me to the Boston Marathon.
Two or three years ago, I donated a small amount to Tenacity as a Christmas gift for Grandpa. I heard Tenacity was this Boston-based after school program that taught city kids how to play tennis. I knew Grandpa would love that. You see, my grandfather is super into tennis. I don't know how the son of Polish immigrants ever got into the sport, but Grandpa didn't stop playing once he started. Tennis was always a part of Grandpa: if he wasn't doing something for one of us, chances are Grandpa could be found at the local racquet club, probably playing his second match of the day. Although Grandpa is too humble to ever say it, my grandfather was regularly firing aces past guys significantly younger than him. He was pretty bad ass. (Side note: is firing aces even a tennis term?) This September, I was pleasantly surprised to find Tenacity was setting up shop at the school where I teach. I remembered the donation I had made a few years prior and knew Tenacity was a program with which I would want to be involved in some way, shape or form. Yes, Tenacity is amazing for my students and I would love the program regardless, but supporting Tenacity was kind of my way of doing something for Grandpa, too.
I was pretty psyched when I found out I was running the Boston Marathon for Tenacity. I don't think I could motivate myself to train for and run 26 miles for a charity that didn't tug at my heart strings a little bit and matter to me and to my students. I learned from Grandpa that success comes when you are all in. My grandfather does everything with a full heart. He doesn't know how to half-ass things, and I hope to God/ Allah/ The Illuminati I've inherited that quality, too.
I think a lot about my students when I run. Ultimately, they are the reason I got into distance running and they will be the direct benefactors of my Marathon fundraising efforts. But, recently, I've been thinking more about Grandpa. Grandpa is almost 90 now, and until about six months ago, he played tennis three days a week. (In reality, he played twice on one of those days, so we should probably just call it four days of tennis a week.) A hernia operation sidelined Grandpa, but let's not forget that, at age 89, my grandfather could have probably kicked your ass in straight sets. He could have absolutely smoked me off the court anyhow. If, at age 32, I'm even half the athlete my grandfather was in his mid-80's, I should be able to do ok running this marathon. I know Grandpa will be proud of me regardless.
Late December Data:
Distance Thursday (12/19): 2.31 miles (with Sole Train youth running group)
Time Thursday: 28 minutes (12' splits)
Distance Saturday (12/21): 13.1 miles
Time Saturday: 1 hour, 55 minutes (8'46" splits)
Distance Tuesday (12/24): 11.3 miles
Time Tuesday: 1 hour, 41 minutes (8'52" splits)
Distance Friday (12/27): 4.42 miles (on a treadmill)
Time Friday: 35 minutes (8'33" splits)
Cumulative Distance Since Blog Started: 165.1 miles
Cumulative Time Since Blog Started: 26 hours, 32 minutes (1 day, 2 hours, 32 minutes)
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