Q&A with my Dad, part 1

I sent this email to my Dad a few days ago:

Dad,

I have a few questions I would like to ask you over the coming weeks and months. I have a feeling I am not the only one who would like to read your answers. If you don't mind, I would like to publish your responses on my blog. 

There is no rush, nor is there a preferred length. I will not edit your answer in any way unless I see a typo. Maybe I will add a few typos to make you sound like a moron. We'll see.

My first question is: 

What are moments (or a single moment, perhaps), you find yourself thinking about often? You don't have to explain why if you don't want to. Nor does it have to have happened already. 

-Edward

Below is the answer he sent me today:

I had been racing all day, it seemed, and my legs has stopped enjoying the run about two hours ago. I had passed through the moment of truth, and made it back to town. The finish was not far away. I was tired, the way you get tired after more than 11 hours activity.

The day had started at the edge of a still lake, with the classic song "Lunatic Fringe" playing as we waited to dive in. it had unfolded through the swim and a hilly ride, and then on a long, undulating run, 13 miles out and 13 miles back. Somewhere on the run, my body (for reasons best known to itself) had decided that it did not want to accept any more fluid. In fact, it had decided the best thing to do was to hold all the fluid it could, somewhere just about the middle of my diaphragm, and wait for a perfect moment to expel it on the side of the road. That moment came about mile 14, I seem to remember, and it probably contributed to the onset of fatigue and the appointment with truth at about mile 14.5. 

You get to that moment, as you well know, and there is no hiding place. Your legs hurt and your mind starts with the sort of cowardly negotiation that has led many a man to his doom. "Just walk for a while. You'll come good." But for some reason, I didn't walk and just decided that I would keep putting one foot in front of the other until I got back to Penticton and could stop. Each step was a decision, each step was a victory.

So, on I went. Down the small grade into town. Down to the main road along the lake and left, when the finish was to the right. I ran away from the finish to a painted dot and arrow in the road where I made the final turnaround, and then headed back along the lake to end it all. Minutes later, I crossed the line, and enjoyed a combination of satisfaction and rehydration in the medical tent as my body took intravenously the fluid it so stupidly refused through normal channels. 

The moment I have thought of was that dot in the road, that moment when I knew that it was done, and I was finally headed for home. The last decision was made. I had overcome the course and myself, and I would be able to drink beer at breakfast and feel pleased. That dot floats in and out of my mind like a sort of haunting metaphor for my life right now. It is the moment when you know that you have done the right thing or not, when you get to enjoy the last victory mile or slink home. I have just about reached the dot on this journey too. I didn't show weakness. I am tired and ready for this thing to be done. And I know that the dot means more than the end of this phase. It also signifies a process of accepting whatever has been, and planning the next Big Thing. I already have ideas.