Son really carries dad on his back

So we recently finished celebrating Mother’s Day and showering mom with gifts, flowers, hugs and kisses. Hopefully, we made it a day mom will always remember and look back on with a smile.

Now, it’s dad’s turn.

Father’s Day is June 16. It doesn’t get the same glory as Mother’s Day, but let’s not forget dear old dad. I’m good with the phone call, the card, the “I love you, dad,” but I would like to do something special, something cool, something he won’t forget. Something that will leave him thinking “Hey, my son loves me.”

Which is what my oldest son did for me, what I’m considering an early Father’s Day gift, and what left an often cold cynic actually choked up, fighting back tears. I haven’t been on the receiving end of a finer tribute, one so simple, and yet one that got me right in the heart.

So what, you ask, was it exactly that got this gruff old guy all misty eyed and sentimental?

Well, in one sense, I got a free ride on my son’s back for 7.46 miles. But there’s more.

Allow me to explain.

It all started with this move to Kauai in April. Among things I would miss on the Mainland was something called Bloomsday. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. It’s a 7.46-mile race through the streets of Spokane, Wash. It’s been going on for 37 years and generally attracts about 50,000 men, women, children and costumed characters.

Well, I’ve run 21 of them, including 19 in a row, dating from 1994 to 2012. You could say my life revolved around Bloomsday. It’s what got me through winters.

It motivated me until spring. It’s why I ran intervals around the track on late nights in April. Bloomsday was always the chance to test myself, to run this course with “Doomsday” hill as fast as possible, always comparing my performance against times of the previous years and bemoaning that I was slowing down.

Sons, daughters, brothers, wife, nephews, nieces and friends ran Bloomsday. When I arose each race day morning, the theme from Chariots of Fire boomed through the house, a wake-up call to all that the starting gun was near.

Bloomsday was, in our family, what you would call a big deal. And I was the lead Bloomie, the fanatic who preached its sacred standing and called for more followers.

But when I moved to Kauai, it meant leaving behind home, family, dogs, job and friends. I could handle all of that. But it also meant missing Bloomsday. And that, well, it hurt like punch right in the gut. I know. Sounds absolutely ridiculous.

Oh, the race went off without me just fine. Sons and daughters and nephews still ran. I heard about their day, their runs, their sprints to the finish. I even went out that day and ran my own 7.46-mile race on Kauai and called it “Blooms Kauai.” Ha.

And then I heard this: My oldest son Nick registered me for the real race. He didn’t stop there. He pinned my race number on his back. Then, he ran the race, carrying me the whole way. I knew nothing of his plans.

In Kauai, when I heard what he had done, it was one of those few times I couldn’t find any words. I sat in silence and simply shook my head.

A tear, believe it or not, actually fell. I don’t know of a finer tribute. Honestly, I can’t imagine one. My son cared enough to register me for the race, and run with my number.

Wow. Unreal. It is perhaps the greatest gifts one of my children has given me, and they have gifted me with much.

As I write this, I worry, though. You see, my son broke the rules. He ran with his number, sure. But he ran with someone else’s, too. Mine. Check the results at the Bloomsday website. Our times are identical: 48 minutes, 43 seconds. My time, considering my age, is more impressive. Heck, I was near the top of my age group.

I’ve debated alerting my friend, Bloomsday founder Don Kardong, of this slight indiscretion so he can set the record straight, at least by the numbers.

I haven’t yet. Perhaps Nick will be disqualified. Perhaps I’ll be banned from Bloomsday from life.

It wouldn’t matter. Not anymore.

They can wipe out the results. They can delete, how paper, how my son carried me on his back.

But not in my heart.

It will remain, there, forever.