Unboxing Hurt

Gore-Tex running suits, midlife Porsches, and missed birthdays. Dad's Journals Part 1.

July 23, 2024.

I’ve had two of my dad’s running diaries in a drawer for three years, plucked from a big box of the books I inherited when he passed in 2013. The old man was religious about recording his runs—usually in the year’s fresh Jim Fixx spiral-bound.

Books 1981 and 1982 memorialize Dad’s training for, and racing of the ‘82 Boston Marathon. I had thought, when I made my own pilgrimage Back to Boston, these journals would be my companion. I’d write about the whole thing—a year of training and a triumphant Hopkinton-to-Boylston—all in my father’s footsteps.

The story would be discovered by a top-tier writer’s agent. They’d offer a generous book advance (thank you), movie adaptation to follow (I like Keanu Reeves as me).

None of those things happened, of course, but I do still have the two books. And, as I sit to write something about run journaling, unsure what the something wants to be, they call to me again.

I flip through pages and flag them with cut-up sticky notes:

• December 30, 1981: 8½ miles. New Gore-Tex suit.

• August 20, 1982: None. Bought Porsche.

• September 20, 1982: LeGrande Cannon Boulevard. 10 miles.

• September 22, 1982: Salt Lake City. 8 miles.

• September 23, 1982: Salt Lake City. None. Hung over.

• October 22, 1981: LeGrande. Loop in 56:30. Plus cooldown. 10 miles.

• March 23, 1981: LeGrande. 10 miles.

• March 26, 1981: None - Raining.

March 26 is my Birthday. No mention. Must have been an oversight.

I check 1982. Nothing. Although Dad did find himself in Salt Lake again and got in a nice eight-miler. Wonder what I was doing? Like much of my childhood—when my mom and dad were still married, that is—I can’t remember. I close the journals and set them next to my laptop.

Will write more later.

July 24, 2024

The books are still out, but an article idea hasn’t materialized. And what the hell? Gore-Tex suit? Porsche? This hurts a little. But I have to travel for work today and simply can’t unpack the feelings right now.

Will write more later.

July 25, 2024

In the truck, bound for U-Haul Self-Storage. I’m looking for the rest of Dad’s running journals and I’m not sure why. Does it matter whether he mentioned my Birthday on any of those twenty-some twenty-sixths of March? They’re his journals, and what’s a diary, if not a collection of private expressions?

U-Haul Self-Storage is in the building that used to house my hometown’s Kmart. I walk the long hallway to our unit, remembering the lure of the snack stand and Icee machine to my left. Our storage unit, 1665, is in the former area of seasonal goods, such as the inflatable Santa Claus punching bag that endlessly entertained me and my cousins every holiday season.

Unit 1665 is full to the brim. My god, what has happened here?

Across a sea of stacked furniture, plastic bins, and the seats from a 2004 GMC Safari, I spot the stained and tattered Amazon box. It’s been home, back to storage, and home again a half-dozen times as I try to figure out what to do with the memories inside. They’re not quite right for a bookshelf, can’t be thrown away.

Maybe I’ve just been afraid to read them.

Will write more later.

July 26, 2024

A red sun rises slow into the smoky, Montana sky. I run ten easy miles on LeGrande, one of those weightless mornings where miles disappear. I post afterward on Strava, “Oops, I fell in love with running again.”

I’m ready.

With the box of Dad’s books beside me, I sit to write.

To be continued…

Run lightly,
-mike

Forever learning to run the mile we’re in.