Runner's Hunch

My dad’s shoulders

are distinctively hunched,

a hunch belonging to a certain type.

Runners.

The distance kind.

The move-till-you’re-dead,

make-your-lungs-melt,

13-miles-a-day,

distance kind.

That’s my dad,

thirteen miles a day since age 12.

Gotta get on the trail even when he feels like hell.

Thin as a rail with a noticeable hunch.

Dad.

He doesn’t think of it much,

but I do.

We all do.

That’s how he’s recognized.

Shoulders slowly sloping?

Dad.

See someone else like it?

Dad?

Young, old, fast, slow,

doesn’t matter. Has the hunch,

Is that Dad?

.

Stubborn as a mule,

he moves like one.

Refusing to change his ways,

stays hunched like one.

Never wanted daughters

but had two,

the only way he knew how to bond was sports.

Because he’s a runner.

Dad’s a runner.

That’s Dad.

And he made us run, too.

Eight years old,

go to the elementary school,

and run.

Distance.

With two kids who loved dolls and gymnastics.

I cried on lap two,

and he told me to suck it up,

then galloped away with that familiar hunch.

Because that’s Dad.

Callous and cold,

running every single day

because running’s all he knows.

Just hunch himself forward,

and go, go, go.

.

There was no leeway at home.

He raised his girls tough.

Made them play sports because they couldn’t run.

Hated to run, actually,

but he didn’t want to hear it.

So, when they complained,

he said just deal with it.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Seriously, suck it up.

Sprained ankles,

bruised bones ,

broken digits,

shredded skin—

none of them mattered to him.

He could run distance,

so anyone could do anything.

And we had to suck it up.

And we did.

And looking back,

I think it’s true,

that there’s nothing anyone can’t do,

because if he can do that daily—

run a half-marathon with visible glee—

then people have to be able to do anything.

.

Maybe that’s why he always tries.

No matter what.

Maybe that’s partly why he’s hunched.

Determined, distance-runner shoulders…

Those are Dad’s, and as I get older

and see all the others with them, too,

I understand who they are.

As people.

As athletes.

As peers.

As families.

What a curious clue…

People so headstrong,

their heads are too heavy to hold,

and they end up hunched.

Just like Dad…

To him, it doesn’t mean much,

but to us, it does.

Bent like a bull,

maybe that’s why his temper’s short.

Maybe that’s why we never got along.

Maybe that’s why he didn’t hug,

didn’t kiss,

didn’t love,

didn’t miss.

Maybe that’s why he only ever worked.

Maybe that’s why his words hurt.

Maybe that’s why he’s misunderstood.

Maybe that’s why he mourns the things he wanted to do but never could.

Animalistic man

who just couldn’t ease up…

Was that hot-headed passion fueling him to run?

Making him drop his head low

and slowly develop a hunch?

.

Yes, hunched man

glowering down,

I spent more time staring up into his livid eyes

than I did looking at my own glimmering back at me in the mirror.

I spent more time staring up at my ceiling

with nothing to do

than playing outside,

talking on the phone,

seeing my friends,

or doing homework.

Grounded again.

Why?

Because Dad.

Dad’s mad.

Why’s he mad?

Because that’s Dad.

Goes for a run and feels better,

but before that?

Watch out.

Tiptoe.

Don’t be loud.

An inky hatred crept up into my heart

for this hunched man called Dad.

Decades bound by chains

will drive anyone mad,

but you know what?

He hated me, too.

Can’t count how many times he shouted it out.

Spat it back at me.

Declared it first.

And I can’t tell you which one hurt worse.

All I know is that I definitely cursed him,

but only in my mind.

Cursed his hunch.

Cursed his life.

He kicked me out of the house,

so I said goodbye

but stopped dead in my tracks as I watched my mother cry.

Then promised her to never talk about what really went on inside.

That day, I felt I lost my spine,

but really,

I just learned how to hunch.

Bend down, compromise, and not care too much.

.

And then, he almost died.

Twice.

That wicked, wacky hunch

was struggling to run,

and right before my eyes—

That’s Dad.

Blue-skinned and breathless—

That’s Dad.

No air for seven minutes—

That’s Dad.

Thought I only loved him because—

That’s Dad—

and had to,

but maybe there was more to it than that.

Dad…

I’d have to tell school I’d be absent because—

Dad…

The doctors know him for his hunch

and his double dance with the Devil.

He’s a legend at the hospitals—

some modern Pheidippides

on some sort of level.

Because no one ever survives.

He really makes everything possible in this life...

Is he actually a roach?

Would he live through a nuke?

Hopefully, we won’t have to know,

but he survived prolonged cardiac arrest times two,

talked to his own dead dad about how it’s not his time,

then came running back to continue his life.

And you know why?

Runner’s heart.

Thirteen miles a day.

Resting pulse 46.

Some modern Pheidippides…

A heart so strong and slow,

it almost killed him twice—

plus that clogged artery…

Now, it’s totally fine,

and now,

by some legendary miracle,

I don’t hate him.

But it wasn’t until I watched him almost die

that I finally understood how he lived his life.

.

Now, his hunch is deeper,

and he complains of losing muscle—

wonders why he survived that

just for everything to get worse.

Wonders why he’s even still walking Earth

if walking only gets harder.

If running only gets harder.

If running one day will have to stop.

He swears he would’ve just gone that day

if he knew he wouldn’t always run.

But as he bobs and shakes his hunched head,

disappointed with what’s left—

disappointed with how life wasn’t all it seemed,

disappointed with how he’s still stuck in his job,

disappointed with how running’s only getting hard—

I fake a smile and fight back tears,

disappointed with how he’d wish away these years

where I actually got to know him—

where I actually learned to love him and that stupid hunch,

refusing to acknowledge the thought of what

it would’ve been like if he died

when I still had all that hate in my heart.

.

Sure, it’s unbelievably hard,

but he still runs.

Every day.

Still continues to deepen the hunch

despite an Achilles tendon nearly snapped.

Despite limping and not being able to touch his toes

even once in the recent past.

Got COVID a week after his last dose of chemo,

and coughing up a lung,

a few days in, still tried to run.

How incredibly Dad…

A month and a half later,

following him on the trail,

watching as he takes off like that,

his distinct hunch leaving me in the dust…

Dad…

How very, very Dad…

No one else is hunched like that,

and no one else runs like that.

Like Dad.

Possibly the most sensitive man to ever walk this earth—

er, run, he’d prefer—

at the end of today, he was much paler than normal.

.

For the past eight years,

I always worry and try to be kind,

finally understanding that he’s just a sensitive guy.

Finally understanding that he’s just misunderstood—

knowing I would turn back time if only I could

to truly suck it up and actually run.

To spend more time staring up at that hunch.

Because that hunch is only getting deeper

and will only ever keep getting deeper.

That’s why Mom wants to move,

because she knows all about the hunch, too.

And it took until today to finally realize

that that’s why she’s so stressed all the time.

That that’s why she’ll sneak to the bathroom to cry.

Because of that stupid runner’s hunch

on that stupid running man who never thinks enough.

Yes, it took until today to finally realize

that that stupid runner’s hunch

bobbing up and down

way up there before me

actually means so much

that I’m prematurely mourning.