I was raised a Runner.
My father grew to love running during its heyday, when Americans excelled, Nike was waffling its first soles and women were finally invited into the sport.
My dad instilled his passion for the sport in his sons at a very young age.
And as children of the 80's my brother and I were spoiled. Our parents were raised comfortably, during a period of alienation. Third generation American, children of the Baby Boom, they grew up on Woodstock, Vietnam and Rock & Roll. Born into Catholicism, they met at Boston College just as both were beginning to question, and ultimately reject the church. 6 days a week of church services to zero. Trust in the Presidency to protests. Baby Boomers are a generation of love, passion and disillusionment. The world changed as they were inheriting it — what was promised began to be lost. Authority and order were replaced with a world that was what you made of it.
And as sons we were raised without a clear authority to accept or reject.
We were instructed to be good to others, take responsibility and to chase our passions with intent. It’s a directive that is both inspiring and terrifying, stimulating and ambiguous.
We were given everything we wanted and more. My father supported our many endeavors, from basketball to art, soccer to science. All he asked in return was that we give a full effort. Because absent a higher calling or promise of eternal blessing, effort in the moment is divine.
Raised during the rise of Rock & Roll, my parents blasted us with “Rolling Stone” by Dylan, carpooled us around with Cream of Clapton and sat us down for “Teenage Wasteland” by The Who. Without a formal moral authority, it’s always felt like the purity of passion and emotion from these artists was our family’s example of a righteous life.
He loved running, and so so did we. I loved soccer, but his eyes lit up when I talked of the track. I was given all the shin guards and cleats I ever needed, but every running shoe or track spike I ever wanted.
