Jogging in St. Louis is like trying to run in a sauna. A tangible, wet heat that makes me sweat big globs visible through the back of my t-shirt. But I jog every other morning here in St. Louis, just like I do at home. But here, in lieu of an alarm clock, my dad raps on my door at 6:15 a.m. If Bianca's still sleeping, just dad and I go. If she's awake, my mom comes along and pushes her in the stroller until my hour is up and we meet at the playground afterward.
Today it was just dad and me. We drove to the park with the top down in his Solera convertible (yes, he admits it's a bit of an after-mid-life crisis thing) to the Columbia park, where they have a twisty, one-mile-long path through woods and past the playground. Sounds like a nice father-daughter morning, right? Well, it's not what it seems.
My dad is a competitor in every sense of the word. On the fourth of July, I was frustrated that we were going to be late for our barbecue at my brother Micah's house because my dad was dinking around the house and bet him a McDonald's sausage biscuit that he couldn't get us to their house on time. Yes, it was all of $0.99 on the line, but you better believe he made it there right on time. You see, competition and money motivate my dad.
While we were jogging this morning, he ran alongside me at the start. For about a mile and a half. I told him I'm a lone jogger. No talking. I need music. Then he stuttered into a walk. I waved nonchalantly, even exhaled a heavy "see ya later," then jogged on. A quarter mile later, I was startled by a sprinter running past on my left. It was my dad. He stopped several feet ahead of me, then walks again. I continue jogging on, shaking my head as I go past. Another quarter mile later, he does it again. It's like trying to shake a clingy dog off my ankle. He's so competitive. He can't let me win.
I'm reminded of my trip here to St. Louis last summer when my sister Susannah (you know I love you, Susannah) decided she had to jog with me. I told her distractedly that I prefer to run alone--keep my own pace, not able to make conversation between heavy breaths--but she thought it would be a great bonding experience. She always gets her way. I relented. We'd run and she stayed with me the entire time, until 50 yards to finish, then she'd kick it, dash past me with Olympic-caliber concentration, and win the race. I tried to tell her I'm not competing with her. I jog for the sheer enjoyment of it. She scoffed. Everyone wants to beat everyone else. Yes, she's a competitor like my dad.
Eventually, my dad admitted defeat and stopped trying to zip past me every quarter mile. We met up afterward. But I've realized through this experience that we all inherit things from our parents. My sister inherited my dad's competitive nature, I guess I inherited his frugality. It's okay. I'd rather be cheap than have to beat everyone at everything.
