"What a world that I'm livin' in,

Will the rainstorms ever end,
Still I feel my... path narrow,
I run again,
See happyness is gone again,

And then you see 'em,
Grey clouds up above man,
Metaphor to my life man,
Still I feel my...heart stronger then its ever been,

Awake in another state,
Livin' in a new space,
Still I feel my...mind runnin' at a steady pace,
God help me so I'll win the race"

-"The Sky Might Fall" Kid Cudi

Some kids had babysitters when they were young. Of course, my brother, sister and I had a myriad of short lived experiences with after school helpers. There was the the teenager who let me as a toddler shout expletives out the window at the elderly man across the street. The elderly couple who, routinely had some type of potato for dinner every night to break from the influx of "Days of our Lives," and "General Hospital" blaring in their ever-too-hot household. The cousins, the friends, but none served a better guide and role model than the Bremerton High School track.

My father can be called many things; mentor, role model, coach, leader, friend, yet the one constant from birth to present is simply stated: runner. There was never a time in my life that my dad did not saddle up Aisic classics, zip up windbreakers and close the door with a simple, "heading to the track." I remember brisk mornings, amidst fly bys of chiseled men and women in numbered paper in Portland and Seattle, waiting as he would pass and one of us would have to expertly hand off a Dixie cup of water for him to splash his face as the next "wall" of 26.2 miles approached. I remember stories from my childhood of "tornadoes on the horizon," "bees in my pants," and stretches of mid-western horizon "as far as the eye could see." It was not a surprise then, as a child, whenever my dad would head to the oval track, to train for his next marathon, de-stress from the day at the office, or simply stack up another mile in a 40 year career, he would take me along.

Before youth races, before spikes for young kids, before road trips to Eugene, OR for "Track City," there was images of rain, sleet, or even snow falling on the Bremerton track and the focused look of patience, but determination as I would sit in a sand pit, run with imaginary friends, or create mischief as my Dad kept a watchful eye on me, but continued to circle the black-top and count the mileage like a odometer.

It was my first sport, track and field. With my father's creation, the Bremerton Jaguars, I trained and learned the value of practice, and racing, and went out time and time again, racing the best youths in the state of Washington. I hated it. I despised the angst coming before a race, I hated that every calculation, time, repetition, hydration, diet, played into the seconds I would be attempting to knock off my race time, to get a closer take on my competitors. I despised the over and over monotony of going around and around the same stretch of track day in and day out, and for the latter part of my teenage years, had no idea why my dad continued to practice, what to my team sport dynamic was punishment for a bad play. "Offsides, go run a lap, bad lay up go, run a lap." Running was something you did for punishment, yet as the years past, the same look, the same determination, the same tranquility never left my dad's face.

I ended up in Micronesia, teaching and spending my days immersed in discipline and lesson plans, in attendance, and in community, which brought joys and stresses all in itself. Amidst a foreign culture, and challenges to my free time with little money, I tried many routes. Basketball of course was a great way to meet locals, yet, as the year progressed, I found that courts would be locked up early, that the rain could appear and end a game as quick as the passing Pacific storm, and that trying to schedule anything in Micronesia comes slow and un-easy. Softball was played, but would often be reliant on other teams getting to the field on time. On certain Friday nights, league games scheduled for 4 in the afternoon would get pushed back due to rain, then a team would not get the message, and due to attempt after attempt, it would not be uncommon to see a softball game going on at 11 or 12 at night, not exactly teacher hours.

Pain struck me, fear took over me. I had come to the realization that to deal with the everyday stress and demand of life in Pohnpei i would NEED to exercise just like I would need to eat or sleep. There seemed to be one last option. A small strip of road connects the airport, through the ocean, and unto the main island where I live. It had relatively little traffic in the evenings and mornings, when it was cool enough to exercise, and there were no dogs. I looked myself in the mirror, in horror, and thought of the millions of times I had told my dad that I would NEVER, under any circumstance take up running, I ate my words, tied my shoes, and headed to the causeway.

I run every day in Pohnpei, and some days twice. Despite the quick shot of exercise I got that first time, I noticed many other things. I noticed the reds and pinks that crystallize the morning sky as the sun dances over the Pacific. I noticed how the fog gets caught on the pleasant green, jungle infested, hills of Pohnpei. I noticed how the calm blue waters could be glass one second, and a strong wind would bring white heads and ripples as fast as can be imagined. I noticed the sight of a storm passing over Sokehs ridge in the evening, as the blue hughs of rain clouds mix with the sun set to actually create a purple sky. I noticed these all as I trouped along, 3 miles at a time, reflecting that there was so much I was seeing, while I traveled along my small stretch of road.

Then, something even worse happened. As I returned from Chuuk from the summer, I started to get anxious, irritated even, if I did not get the chance to run. I started to run in my dreams, and I did something that I would hold dear and secret; I began to smile while running. It was gradual and took a long road of concrete in the equatorial Pacific, yet finally, to my father's chagrin, I became a runner.

Running is an every day part of my life in Pohnpei, people see me out (of course Micronesians think it is crazy to run unless something is chasing you, knowing my background I do not really blame them) and wave hello. There is a common group of walkers I see each morning and greet with a hello, and of course, 4 year champion and my running mentor (and former JV) Tim Smit is an ever-present figure. It has become, as I described to the Jesuits at spirituality night, a type of contemplation for me, as it no doubt is for my father, that look of peace I saw on his face, for 22 years, is slowly finding its way on to mine.

The truth is, running forces me to do something that is not very easy, as strange as it may seem, it forces me to slow down. Running takes concentration. One must keep the back straight, create a fluid motion, breathe successfully, focus on foot control, and so on and so forth. Further, as one runs harder and longer, the famous "wall" begins to set in. That is, the idea of fatigue becomes so great, mental capacities kick in, and fight with all strength to make the runner stop. Here in lies the breakthrough, rather than stopping, the wall can be beaten by a deep breath, a mental check and a thought of "indifference." A runner knows he or she is tired, but simply chooses to continue through the challenges, knowing that it will be OK. A skilled runner (I assume as despite my love I still meander around around like a three legged dog) can train himself mentally like a meditative, or contemplative, to get "out" of his body, to know his body so well, his mind can escape the pain associated with it.

This type of "higher athletics," has roots in Ignatian Spirituality. This idea of indifference is central to understanding our roles in our relationship with God. As each one of us attempts to meld his her life how he or she wants, we loose sight of God's intent, we see the forest for the trees, and what could be obvious or clear with less stress or emotion becomes what Albert Camus would call, "the absurd." Yet, if we become indifferent (not the traditional definition, instead like a spiritual yuji board) we accept the realities of this world, and in such acceptance, allow God to work through us. We know we are tired, know our body wants us to stop, but are indifferent to it, and continue running. Of course, my indifference lead me to the lessons of my father (slowly but surely) and has allowed me a joy, given to my own designs and ideas I probably would have never found.

As the sun goes down each night, my shoes get laced up and I reach for my Ipod to get me through my next run. As I run and see the sun set, I smile, not for the beauty or the joy of another run, but smile at the idea somewhere, undoubtedly on that same track, my dad might be smiling back.

My track these days (the little stretch right in the middle)