Dad's 70 today. So what?

‘Ey-up! It’s been a while!

Well, my last post was about a 53-mile jaunt through the Scottish Highlands – to be fair, it’s a tough one to follow… but hopefully I’ve got a suitable topic to do so! But before I move onto it…

It’s runstreak day 600 for me today. Six-hundred days (since October 12, 2012) of running at least a mile (generally at least three) every single day, regardless of weather or commitments, over which I’ve clocked 4,979 miles. Six-hundred days of being in sufficiently good health to get out there, dragged out by a stubborn mind or impatient legs: and for that I am thankful. The nearest I came to stopping was towards the end of March 2013, when a stomach bug was doing the rounds: but I still go out there. And fear not, I got back in time, too…

What did I do on day 600? I ran 7.00 miles. No, not 6.00. Bet you can’t wait to find out why…

Tuesdays are meant to feature a steady 6.2 (10k) amble, sandwiched as they are in between the 15mi Monday “Long”-Run and the Wednesday Speedwork Session. And today was steady alright. Just a tad over 6.2mi because…

…it’s me Dad’s 70th birthday today!

Dad’s birthday is six weeks after Mum’s, as he’s been telling the world for around 43 years. Makes him the young’un in the partnership, see. As if six weeks are worth bragging about: my Mrs S has got four years and eleven months on me!

Today's run: 7.0 (slow/recovery) miles - and, if you look
closely enough, a doodled 70 near the beginning/end
(the green and b/w dots). Oh c'mon... work with me!

Today’s celebrations will comprise of lunch out with my Mum and my Nonna. We don’t do big deals in my family. Mother’ll make him a cuppatea early, not because it’s his birthday but because it’s what she always does; and I expect he’ll go for his evening pint with The Butcher later, too. That’s not a nickname for a rugged centre-back, by the way: that’s what he does for a living. Don’t think he’s ever played football in his life. Used to own an amateur club, which in Italy are more professionally run than their English equivalents of comparable league standing… I even played for their Youth Team briefly. Made an appearance on the bench for the First Team. 50,000 lire win bonus. Back of the net!So: on the whole, no big deal. That’s one of the many lessons I’ve learnt from my parents along the way: take everything seriously, give it everything you’ve got, but don’t take anything too seriously. Those who’ve met me will be grinning at this stage. It’s an attitude that was never coded into a formula or rule, so let me steal some words Springsteen used to describe his trade:

“You've got to be able to hold a lot of contradictory ideas in your mind without going nuts. I feel like to do my job right, when I walk out onstage I've got to feel like it's the most important thing in the world. I've also got to feel like, well, it's only rock and roll. Somehow you've got to believe both of those things.”

Where Bruce talks about performing in front of thousands of people, replace with “working in a bank”, “raising a child”, “running”… it still kinda works. It doesn’t sound as grandiose, but it works.

Don’t worry, I’m not going to list every single lesson I’ve learnt off my parents. In many cases, the seeds have long been sown, but my eyes will only be open to the message they carry when the time is right. But there is one more lesson on which I will elaborate for a little while…

…because, but for what my parents taught me about the value of exercise, you’d probably not have to read this drivel in the first place!

I’ll start with Mum, because her impact on my love of sport is otherwise easily and wrongly overlooked. As far as I know, she never did any formal exercise – least not that I know of! The oldest of five, she was fifteen when her parents had twin girls. My grandparents worked hard: Grandma didn’t hang around, I think she was back at work a week after her last trip to the maternity ward, and a double whammy at that. So Mum had to help out with raising the girls. Whether that stood in the way of her signing up to some sports club I don’t know: it’s quite likely she wouldn’t have bothered anyway. She got her sporting fix from watching The Blades home and (often) away, and that is of course good enough in anyone’s book. But she was just naturally active in getting from A to B and gerrin’ stuff done. She has never driven and has just always got around on foot, by bus or, for the longer journeys, in the passenger seat of Dad’s car. She’ll still regularly go for a three-mile morning walk for a bit of exercise and fresh air, which many other septuagenarians wouldn’t dream of. Granted, her walks are along the Mediterranean coast, with relatively little wind and often decent weather, but still… And when she goes it’s generally early, before breakfast. Sound familiar?

With regards to Dad, it’s a different story. He’s always been involved in organised sport and competition. Our living room was adorned with him sailing trophies: he competed in Laser and Star class at World Championship level, once coming second in a Star World Championship regatta. A sub-11” 100m runner in his youth, you might have read on here that he also ran three marathons in his thirties. I have since well and truly claimed the Squintani record over 26.2mi, but his 100m stat is safe for a while yet…

One reason Dad did sports more formally is down to geography: back then in Italy (as was the case during my time), you’d be home from school around 12:30, you’d eat lunch and you’d have the afternoon for homework and play. It’s likely that Dad and I divided homework and play differently… Regardless, school had no role in your sporting endeavours: those were the responsibility of local clubs. Dad’s dad, my Nonno, had been a rower for Canottieri Argus, a highly respected club that is still going strong today. Would probably have rowed at the 1940 Olympics, but for the fact they were never held… Whether Dad chose sailing and the Circolo Velico to steer clear of Nonno’s reputation I don’t know: it’s certainly one reason I was never keen on sailing. Or on running.

Because… have I mentioned Dad was a runner?

Three marathons. He’d try and get me to go running with him. It bored me. So, after a couple of times, I didn’t bother. Which disappointed him, not so much for the sporting side of things but because of the missed quality time. But he never made a big deal about it: just the odd casual mention. Until now…

…because sure, now not a time when I see him goes by without him making fun about how I run stupid distances when once I couldn’t be bothered to do half an hour or so!

Would I do anything different if I could go back in time? Probably not. I’d stick to football, tennis – and books. It’s no coincidence that many runners only connect with the sport in their 30s, once family and work commitments take over our diaries and the chance to meet up with other humans to play proper sports, perhaps with “extended rehydration time” (=alcohol) at the end of the contest..!

He’s relaxed a bit recently, has Dad. Not running much these days, just the odd 20-mile bike ride here and there amongst shorter distance cycles. Just your average 70-year old, really.

As I’ve written before, I don’t train to run a sub-3h15’ mara or a sub-90’ half. Or a 53-mi Ultra, or a sub-20’ 5k. I run today because when I grow up I want to be like my Dad. Then again, neither of us have ever shown much promise of ever growing up…

…but hey, hopefully I’ll be in a similar shape to him (and Mum, and Nonna) when I approach their age. And maybe, if I do reach 70, I’ll celebrate with a 7-miler. On the bike, obviously.

Dad’s 70. So what?

Whatever the topic, that’s as good a comment as you can apply. Whether I’ve run 53 miles or had a seizure, ultimately the best accompaniment is a good old “So what?” Helps keep things in perspective, good or bad: achievements and failures are all transient specs of dust, onto which we should not hold on and which in turn should not hold us back. Although folk aren’t always on this wavelength when I apply it to medical operations, illnesses… and not just my own…

…but it’s my little way of underlining how everything passes. For indeed, omnia transeunt. And, whilst they never spelt that out in Latin, that’s one thing I’ve learnt from my parents. The language wasn’t so much Latin as a good old “gerronwi’it!”, but it was sound advice nonetheless.

Shrug shoulders. Don’t let what you cannot control bother you. Focus on what you can impact. And gerronwi’it.

They say you shouldn’t meet your heroes. And sure, I could have walked away from Springsteen when we came face-to-face backstage at The Paramount Theatre, Asbury Park on December 7, 2001… I might as well have done, as it happens I stood there without saying a word before he walked away. I thought he’d come back, see, and didn’t want to bother him so soon after the end of the show… Anyway: that was Bruce. As for my other heroes… well, how can you not meet them when you grow up under the same roof?

I say Dad “was” a runner… I’m hoping to get him to do a comeback!

My parents will be in England shortly, arriving at our place on June 18. On the Friday they’ll head up to Sheffield (they’re not daft!) and I’ll be hitching a ride to join the crew for this year’s Longest Day Run – an affirmation of running and, for some of us, a grand chance for a 40mi run across the Peak District! They’ll then head back to Italy towards the end of July… and will hopefully be here on a Saturday morning so that Dad and I can run Little Stoke parkrun together. It’s long overdue.

So there you have it. I know, I’ve gone on… as per usual!

To be honest, I’m not that fussed about it being Dad’s birthday in terms of the day itself. But I am chuffed to bits that both he and Mum have reached 70 in the shape they have, both mentally and physically. It certainly puts reaching 600 days of running every day into perspective.
I’m chuffed for them because of the quality of life this affords them, how they can carry on doing pretty much what they’ve enjoyed doing for years. Equally and selfishly, I’m chuffed for myself because it means I’m not sat here, a thousand miles away, whittling or feeling guilty. Not about them, not about Nonna, who’s currently on 98 not out. They’ve looked after themselves, eaten the right stuff (not by going out of their way to follow fads, just by living on the Mediterranean), exercised (body and mind)… and now they’re reaping their reward.

Now, don’t get me wrong: I am aware that there are plenty of people who do all the right stuff but don’t reap just rewards. I’m equally aware that Keith Richards is 168 days older than Dad and in decent shape himself, regardless of a somewhat different regime. I know there’s not a perfect correlation and that our bodies sometimes don’t play by the rules. I say that with in mind one particular, long-time friend who might be reading this: and I’m sorry, Mate.

Thanks, Dad – and happy birthday!

The first photo I took with the Polaroid camera Father Christmas dropped off at our house on his 1986 round...
...a rare shot of my parents, what with Mother's camera-shyness. In my mind, this is what they look like. Even 28 years down the road.