I remember being 16 years old. My father has just completed another marathon in Duluth, MN. He was resting, and story-telling.

“Did I tell you about Iowa? No? I didn’t? Well, I once drove to Iowa to run a marathon. I don’t remember what number it was. I planned to sleep in my car in a park the night before the race, but around midnight, this cop tapped my window with his flashlight and I got kicked out a few minutes later.”

“Why didn’t you get a hotel?” I asked.

“It seemed like a waste of money,” he replied.

“So then what?” I asked.

“Well, after I got kicked out, I drove around for an hour looking for a place to park. I ended up just pulling my car into a cornfield, putting the driver’s seat back and falling asleep.”

“So what, you just slept a few hours in the car and then woke up and ran 26 miles?”

“Yeah.”

After that, I knew I would be a runner. I didn’t have a choice.

My father has run 30+ marathons. Today, he is not particularly old, but he is worn beyond the point where he wants to hurt himself to feel good.

That is sort of the point of a marathon. It is twisted, yet enthralling. Destructive, but reconstructive.

I have tried to stop running. Too many times to count. I’ve had surgery on both knees and continue to deal with a bad back that is as annoying as the barking dog next door, and as painful as a hot poker. Sometimes I swear I’m getting branded.

But I run.

I run because my father ran until he knew he was done. Until he knew his slower-paced son could run alongside him without breathing heavily.

“You go ahead,” he told me, several years ago when I was home for the holidays. We were out for a rare father-son run. One of only a handful we’ve enjoyed due to the distance between us.

That’s when I knew running had passed him by.

“No, I can slow down a little,” I replied.

“No, run ahead,” he insisted. Demanded, really. “I’m pretty slow these days.”

“It’s OK,” his eyes said. “Go.”

So I did. Because to slow down to run alongside him would have been an insult.

My dad has a bad back of his own. Maybe it’s from the running. Or maybe it’s from putting us three kids on it following my parents’ divorce.

When my own back hurts, I think of my father’s. I think of him. I think of all the miles he put on his running shoes, trying to put the pain of a failed marriage behind him. I think of all the tread he wore down trying to endure. For him, but mostly for his kids.

So I endure the pain. I run.

I run because I cannot stop running.