Dancing With Fools

I Have Felt Better, and I Have Felt Worse

Over my shoulder, I see a blue and yellow mesh tank top coming into view, and then another in black and white nearing.

This course is number one on the top-five list. We run through the trails of Saratoga State Park, catch a glimpse of community pools that are covered with tarps, pass the gates of the Performing Arts Center, which helped to gain a kick in my step because somebody was impersonating Jimi Hendrix quite well. There are sights that keep the legs going, sounds that keep the mind at ease. Coming out of the last trail, sunlight shines down on the greenish-brown grass, the Hall of Springs in the distance. The final stretch is so close, yet still so far away.

I think of a cross country race the same way as a school dance: anticipation flows through with the preparation and the actual event means so much. Who's going to ignore you? How far are you going to get? Who'll tell you how great you are? I swear I hear my mother shouting out my name. Followed by Holly outdoing her with, "HOLY CRAP!" This isn't a far stretch, for one, Holly came to cheer us on, and another, well, we already know the reason for the other.

Why not indulge a little bit further? Let's say Dad has his hands in the air, his small beer belly bouncing as he encourages with words such as, "Come on, honey! You can do it! I've got faith in you!"

His voice is the loudest of them all.

Approaching the hill that leads to the concrete pathway, he stands out from all the other parents, wearing a distinguished smile, the one I image when he first saw me in my mother's arms. Just like he did in the hospital room, he wraps an arm around my mother, pulls her in for a kiss. They stay locked in each other's gaze, for they have witnessed their daughter's arrival.

Reality paints a different picture: among the crowd, he stands out the same as a wilted weed in a bountiful bed of flowers. It's the way he presents himself as the obvious oddity. He concentrates on the number of girls crossing the finishing line as if he's scouting them, not enjoying the fact that his offspring is completing yet another 3.5 miles. Hell, he may have forgotten that she's even in the race. My daughter, run? Please. You must be seeing things.

The girl in blue and yellow is picking up speed, her black ponytail contacting cheek for cheek. I search for him like one searches for Waldo. Only the pages don't get harder; he's always right there in plain sight. With the fountain in full view, the water provides a magical mirror effect, visions that a person wants to see.

I crash into him at the finish line, his arms enveloping me as he kisses the top of my head, a place that is forbidden even when it isn't covered in sweat. "I always knew you could do it," he says in the kind of voice all daughters long to hear. We rely on fathers to set an example—to create the template of a man. Fathers are supposed to make their daughters feel special. They're supposed to remind them of their worth.

Sneakers are bass drums, pounding and echoing. That floppy ponytail girl is inching her way. I continue with scenarios—my father embracing me when I bring home an A; a kiss on my cheek when wishing me a happy birthday; at a loss for words when seeing me in my prom dress; predicting a promising future ahead of me on graduation. He sheds a tear when he gives me away on my wedding day.

Extending my legs as far as they can go, the cool air hits the back of my knees. My toes hurt from curling them. If my toenails have chipped off and they are bleeding out like faucets, I don't care. It feels that good.

I'm caught in a bubble with the realization of the number 75 printed on a red card. Seventy-nine girls were in that race.

Holly smashes into my side as I am hunched over. She pops the bubble that's been there since breakfast. "Holy, crap! Lana, that girl was centimeters behind you. You blasted off ahead of her like you were a bullet. All I can say is HOLY CRAP!"