A black and white photograph hangs in my office next to the original race bib, number 247. I can’t help but love the girl in this photo. Nine years old and fearless. Chin up, eyes fixed on the finish line of her first long-distance race.
The picture captures me running in my hometown’s second annual Groundhog Day Run on a sunny Saturday in 1980. A local newspaper photographer caught me mid-stride with arms and legs pumping – dressed in two layers of sweaty cotton shirts, my favorite corduroy jeans, and a pair of knockoff Adidas we bought at Kmart. My dad is standing behind me on the snowy sidewalk with a shit-eating grin on his face. As I ran down the homestretch, he had clapped and cheered, and in response I kicked my legs into high gear.
It’s hard to believe the photo is forty years old today, and my dad has been gone for more than a decade. But I feel him near me as I hit the homestretch of writing my first book. He is cheering me on from the sidelines. Chin up, eyes fixed ahead, finding my stride. I am that fearless girl poised to finish strong.