The transition from 2021 to 2022 was full of tremendous community experiences; however, I was in literary hibernation. Bogged down, blogged down. Alas, a sensational springtime Saturday to burst back on that worldwide web.
It is a Saturday I have spoken about and written about many times before. The Memorial Day weekend Saturday in downtown Johnstown has beautifully ballooned in recent years, thanks in large part to a volunteer and small business brigade. My wife, master and commander of our household, also serves on that volunteer frontline while captaining a small business (and serves as unpaid editor to this blog). In her free time, she sometimes sleeps.
When Memorial Day Saturday arrives, my wife puts on her Taste and Tour hardhat and I lace up my running shoes. The sun rises and we feel a communal adrenaline rush. The 8-mile challenge in the Path of the Flood Historic Races is how I respond to that rush. Each winter, I question whether I will be able to run 8 miles by May and then I will my credit card number into this machine.
Riding on the school bus to the Staple Bend tunnel, I was united with the racing community that I am grateful to be a part of. Like always, my mind starts racing before my feet. The thought of Texan children who will never get this chance; images of my daughters on the move - running, laughing, screaming, and adventuring up-down and all-around; channeling my inner-kid kinetic energy while filtering through fatherhood brain. Inspired, I get off the bus to conquer miles and divide up those inspirations.
Then, I bolted back to the bus. Emotional brain waves = forgot my car keys on board. I was the Dad who sprinted from the Porta-Potty to the bus for a race warmup. Nothing like a pee-your-pants wind sprint before an 8-miler. Why do I run with my car keys? Because I am a Dad and I feel more secure with them on my person. Leave me alone.
The race's rolling start was a 2021 Covid preventative measure that continued in this year's campaign. This means that runners do not have to all start together; race bibs, a mat, and computers capture individual start times and finishes. It prevents stampeding /herding out of the gates and it provides uncertainty on how you stack up with your competitors. For the ultra-competitive, this is probably maddening. For the mildly-competitive, this is fine. With a light rain falling, I lone-wolfed my way across the start line.
After the race, fellow mildly-competitive runners questioned my race tactics. You run long distances with no music? Are you a psychopath? I listen to Mother Nature. I do not work. I do not parent. I do not stress. I just run. If it sound psychotic to you, then lunacy it is. I am the conductor of my cranium's circus music. It is my personal therapy alongside my community and it only gets better - and harder - with age.
When I crossed the finish line, it was instant gratification in that sea of finishers. The race director got on the microphone and asked the crowd to look around. It is the crowd that makes the race what it is. There is no celebration or comradery without each other. Family and friends gather to toast, relive the race that was, and discuss the day ahead. 8:30 AM and grandeur accomplished and then envisioned. Thanks to those who dedicate time and energy to make the Path of the Flood a smashing spring success.
Onward to the farm. In a stunning turn of events, my 5-year-old graduated on Thursday only to have a finale field trip scheduled for Saturday afternoon. My leg muscles shrieked in unison at the barnyard - a chicken coop cool down. The youngsters got to plant pumpkin seeds, pot flowers, and learn about life on a farm. A gracious family - with twins in the preschool program - welcomed the class on this excursion. I had a daydream where I was a farmer and had twins. It centered on me having no idea what to do.
The Geneva Preschool experience has been one of the greatest blessings of my journey as a Dad. Our daughters thrived in a creative and nurturing environment that reinforced faith, family, and community engagement. In a turbulent health crisis, the teachers were phenomenal - more relentless than the virus, they taught us parents a thing or two. Creativity and humor is ageless. Restrictions do not have to limit insight. Music plays beyond any barriers. Thanks to a teaching triple threat - Mrs. Kane, Mrs. Mood, and Mrs. Curry. Phenomenal dedication and leadership that served as a foundation for our girls and for many grateful Johnstown families.
By the time I stepped foot downtown for Taste and Tour, my steps were well into double digit miles. Imagine hunters and gathers learning about us pampered folk who "count steps". To the pioneers, purely preposterous. I never have counted steps. I don't even listen to music when I run. I'm a modern day barbarian with a good old-fashioned Timex watch.
Five solid hours of tasting and touring was a delightful and dynamic recipe. 700 tickets sold out in minutes for one night of downtown glory. The weather cooperated as the businesses boomed. A crisscrossing community patterned the streets as music decorated the town. I gratefully walked side-by-side with my wife, proud of her hard work and the community she so intensely loves. My walk was equally intense due to gradual tightness. A militaristic gait was not in honor of our troops. It was in response to muscular grief.
Alas, we made it home. My Dad picked us up. When in doubt, call Dad. For now, I don't want my daughters to have phones, so save the calls for later in life. Get yourself a Timex. Don't worry about your steps. Be a kid. There is nothing better. Love the land and learn from it. I am no farmer, but appreciate the sunrises and salute the sunsets. Never stop learning. Be grateful to teachers. Race on. When your legs get tired, rely on your head and heart. The music need not stop.
The blog is back.
Thanks, Johnstown.
