The Man Who Moves

1.08 miles. It was a long, long day of moving and unpacking. But I saw something today that made me stare intently and question my expectations of myself and what I should be capable of doing: my dad pretty much lugged a washer up a flight of stairs by himself. The man has incredible, innate strength. He possesses this mindset that he can lift the impossibly heavy and move the immovable; there is no job too big for him. I remember working alongside him in a meat-packing plant when I was in high school. I was quite a bit younger than I am now, and much weaker. I remember hating the work. I remember having to do physically-demanding labor for ten hours per day, and barely being able to do it. And when I did, I'd go home too tired to do anything the rest of the evening. And then I'd still be tired the next morning, at 5 a.m., when I'd have to get up for the workday again. But he would go to work. He would do the same work with relative ease. He'd go home at night and do more work--lawn work, farming work, exterior house work, etc.--for three or four more hours. Then he'd get up in the morning and do it all over again. He has an incredible skill set when it comes to physical endurance, pain, and strength. And on top of that, he has an untouchable work ethic. He doesn't run or lift weights or really do any structured exercise. He gets his muscle from knowing that he has a task to do, and that by doing it he'll have achieved something, even if it's something that doesn't come with glory or praise. That is what makes him completely different than anyone else. He'll crush himself to get a self-made result. Most people would hire a mover. Most people would hire a builder. Most people would rather pay somebody else to put up with the pain and inconvenience. My father is the mover, the builder, and the Ultimate High Threshold. I remember being even younger and watching him work outside in 100 degree weather, never needing to take in water, wearing long sleeves and thick blue jeans and never letting the heat phase him as he hammered limestone and built a spectacular, 100+ feet rock wall during his Sundays (his one day off) for a summer. He has these hands that look swollen, only they're not swollen; they're like balls of muscle, and they can grab anything and hold onto it securely. He's over fifty, and his hands, while showing wear, don't show age. Just unremitting strength. That's how he got that washer up the stairs, I know it.

There's a big reason why I love Bruce Springsteen, and it's because in each of his songs I can see a little (and in some cases a lot) of my father. I hope I have his genes and I just haven't realized it yet. If not, I hope I can lasso his mindset and do things just to get them done, to not take the easy way out. I have some deep thinking to do about what I'm trying to get out of running, and I have to stop looking for ways to get what I want out of it and just, in essence, shut-up and get it done.