My mother is active, energized, and a searcher of truth. My father is laid back, a methodical saver of energy, and a man with exceptional hand-eye coordination. Mom is a passionate doer; dad a purveyor of logic. I, am all of the above.
Mom is very excited about my quest for Ironman, but I’m pretty sure dad thinks I’m nuts. He gave me the gift of learning through analogy and, in his mind, the only comparison close to his son doing Ironman is his buddy Bill who used to run marathons.
Dad and I both thought marathoners had a screw loose. Unless there was a basket, base, or end zone waiting, running was not something Tarrollys embraced. Even then, it was questionable. We never seemed to be in a hurry, and the thought of running 26.2 miles, let alone 90 feet, seemed a little silly.
So now, I’m pretty sure dad thinks I’m doing a marathon and is confused when I talk about swim and bike. Hell, even I didn’t really understand it until last year.
He told me he’ll be at the race, but I’m not sure the time investment has sunk in. He’ll drive to Madison that morning at 5am, scramble to find parking, then stand around for 13 hours trying to catch a glimpse of his son doing something he thinks is an exercise for the paranormal.
But seeing is understanding. And he’s a competitor.
One of my earliest memories with dad is when I was 6 years old and he’d crouch with a pillow in front of him as a human blocking sled. I’d wear my Green Bay Packer’s helmet and smash into him like John Brockington while he encouraged me to run harder, faster, and with more power. We’d do it over and over until he wanted a PBR or I wanted a Mountain Dew.
I think like most dads, mine wanted to live re-live his athletic days through his son. On the little league, or Pop Warner fields, he was there. I’ll never forget the sound of his voice echoing through my helmet ear holes after I got a hit and ran my little heart out down the first baseline, “That a baby!”
He was always proud of my accomplishments and, like any young boy, I always wanted to impress my dad.
Now, his oldest son will tackle the biggest challenge yet: Ironman. In lieu of a field, this game will play out over 140.6 miles of water and pavement. It will be a test of will and endurance that has little in common with the split-second reaction needed to hit a baseball, or take a jump shot, but the competitor in dad will eventually get hooked. Timing chips, splits, and transitions will be a foreign language, but dad will translate Lake Monona and the streets of Madison as my grown-up-blocking-sled while he encourages me to run harder, faster, and with more power.
He will sit near the final mile and marvel at the fact that I actually finished. Not that he doesn’t think I can do it, but I’m sure on some level he truly believes Ironman seems impossible.
But for years he poured into my head that anything is possible. And on that day I will remind him that he helped me believe in myself by defining the world as a free market. Insisting it’s there for the taking. “You have the ability, intelligence and desire to follow your dreams. Just go do it.” And, whether or not this is what he had in mind, one of his son’s most compelling dreams will soon unfold, right before dad’s eyes.