Besides being the most well-known jazz saxophonist in the country, my dad was an avid "jogger." He was known to run about six miles a day at our local Edwin Warner Park on the concrete bike paths. (In the 80s and 90s, the term "jogger" wasn't an insult; people jogged for general health.)
I was 12 years old, in eighth grade, and I’d put on a little weight.
One day, out of nowhere, my dad came into my room while I was still sleeping. It was 4:30 in the morning. He ripped the covers off of my bed. I instinctually shot up and half-screamed, half-muttered something like "Dad what the heck?!”
He responded, nonchalantly, and said, "Get up son, we're going jogging." … As if that was something a 12-year-old does, or as if we had done that at any point, like, ever.
The Run
He dragged me to the Edwin Warner Highway 100 entrance and, in his less than modest mid-nineties split shorts, ran me through his warmup routine, which consisted of calisthenics and old-school static stretching. Once we were good and warmed up, he walked me around the corner to the trailhead.
My heart sank as I took in the massive, never-ending skyscraper of a hill that towered before me.
"We're going up … that?"
"Yup, come on,” he said. And we were off.
Back then, my dad kept a steady 11-minute-per-mile pace, one that would be a restrained recovery jog for me today. But for kiddie Kyle, it was breakneck speed.
As we ran, my little legs spun a thousand tiny RPMs for every two of his loping strides. (My father has the lower body of an elite Kenyan distance runner). His slender, sinewy legs just chewed up the hills as he preached his "gospel of the run" to me while I staggered and belched with discomfort.
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