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Once a week, my morning run strengthens more than my hamstrings and lung capacity. It nurtures my relationship with the man from whom I inherited the running gene in the first place—my dad.
We’ve been running buddies for as long as I can remember, crossing the finish line together at kid-friendly fun runs, then grown-up marathons. Roughly a decade ago, when I was 20 and Dad was 48, we began a tradition: Rise early Sunday morning, drive to a trail situated halfway between my Seattle apartment and Dad’s home in Stanwood (40 miles away), and ease ourselves into a steady 10-miler.
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