1939 High School Graduation
1941 20 Years Old
He wasn’t really with it. The drugs kept him calm, and mostly asleep, in his hospice bed. It was his choice, how he wanted to die. We’d all known it. He had made it very clear all of his life. There was to be no nursing home, no prolonging his life. We were to let him go. Pull everything, no food, no water, nothing that would extend his life. The drugs were to keep him, and us, from experiencing any additional pain.
As I look back on it now, I’m struck at what a courageous and selfless decision he made. I’m convinced his motivation was for those he loved. Death is brutal for those who survive. Why make it harder by slowing and extending its insidious and inevitable outcome.
I’d been called by my mom early in the morning. Something was wrong with dad. Could I come and help them.
My dad couldn’t walk without help. He’d fall, and my mom wasn’t strong enough to steady him. He’d been that way since late last night, but they didn’t want to bother me, so they waited until morning to call me. I got an ambulance there that took him safely to the hospital. I followed in my car, calling my siblings, letting them know what was happening. My dad would never see his home again.
He’d had a stroke. That night in the hospital, he had a heart attack and another stroke. It took him three weeks to die. No food, no water, no nothing. The family would gather daily, and my mom kept a constant vigil.
There were moments of lucidity, especially during the first week, and we delighted in the brief interludes of normalcy; his sense of humor, a kind smile, and a twinkle in his eye. They didn’t last long enough though.
There was a race. It was the Nature Valley Grand Prix road race in Plainview. The year was 2001. I decided to go race it, even though my dad was dying. I figured it would give me a few hours of relief from the emotions of watching him fade into death. I was sure I’d see him when I got back. I’d only be gone for four or five hours. I assured my mom I’d be fine, that I was just going for the diversion. She approved.
This was the most prestigious race I’d ever been in, with racers from Iowa, Wisconsin, Nebraska, and of course, the cream of Minnesota, and that was just in my category. I entered the 35+ open -any category 1, 2, 3, you just had to be over 35 years of age. I was 42. We had motorcycle escorts, with a guy sitting on the back writing gaps on a chalk board. Very Cool! The course was full of rollers, with one major ass climb, and, of course, a winding sprint finish, with maybe 100 straight meters to the line. Two laps of 35 miles each. Had to do the hill twice and it came only five miles after we started. First lap was pretty uneventful. I was just thinkin’ how cool it was to have a motorcycle escort, and just…riding.
Things got interesting the second lap. I was on the front. A flyer shot past me, but nobody followed. I just maintained the pace. We could see the hill coming, and nobody wanted to waste any energy, before the ascent. The flyer came back, before we hit the hill. I got passed on the hill and grabbed on to that wheel. At the top of this bad ass ascent the chalk board had 30 seconds on it. I looked back and it was just two of us. I said, we’ve got a good gap, I’ll work with you, let’s try to stay away. He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and said, OK, and we were off. We were doing really well and increased our lead on the peloton. Then, with about 25 miles left, I broke a spoke, and the wheel went badly out of true. My brakes were rubbing. I adjusted them, while still riding, and eliminated the rub, but the wobble was, at best, disconcerting. We didn’t lose any time to the peloton, and I figured the closer I got to the finish line, the less I’d have to walk. So I said, I’m OK, let’s keep on pushing it. This guy was really strong, and it was really wonderful to work with him. He wasn’t saving anything. Actually, I would get a little complacent, because our gap was increasing, and I wanted to rest. He kept saying, “we gotta go”. With about 10 miles to go we had a gap of 3 minutes and 19 seconds (the things you remember).
I was starting to think of the finish, of the sprint. I thought well, second will be cool. At about two miles it was obvious we had the race won. If my wheel held up, I’d get second place. (To this day I’ve got the worst sprint on the planet) I looked over at this guy, looked him in the eyes, and said, well it looks like we’re going to get 1st and 2nd , and I wished him good luck. It was sincere, and I shook his hand.
The finish line kept getting closer and closer, and we just kept on rotating off the front, keeping up the same pace that had gotten us this far. Why wasn’t he taking off? I was hurting big time, out of water and mouth so dry I couldn’t even swallow. I was just hanging on. We started the weave to the finish, and I’m thinking well, I guess he’s waiting for me. My only strength is in climbing and I see ahead a very slight rise in the road to the straight away. The barricades are up and there are hay bales lining the road. I think I even heard a cheer or two. I attack on that rise, put my head down, go as hard as I can, and I won.
Tony (the guy) comes up to me afterwards, and says, “are you OK?” I was in sorry shape and needed something to drink badly. I said, yeah, I just need some water. Then he says, (about himself) “I’ve got the worst sprint in the state”. He then congratulated me on my win. At that moment the race official car that had followed us since our break away pulls up. We kind of looked at each other. The window rolls down. And I’m going, ahh fuck! What did we do wrong? The race ref sticks his head out the window, looks really serious and says, “that has got to be one of the best efforts I have ever seen, congratulations you guys, great race”, and they drive off.
Just a side note of interest: Many from the peloton came up and congratulated me. One of them said, “Man, you beat us by over 4 minutes”. Then he said, “I didn’t take you seriously. I didn’t think you could stay away.” I asked him, “why not?”, and he pointed at my legs and said, almost shyly, “you don’t shave”. Just in case anyone wonders why I don’t shave my legs, this is how it got started.
I walked into the hospice room. A few of my family were there, my dad in his bed, eyes closed, left arm pinned and shriveled to his side from the effects of the strokes. He looked weak and hollow. I asked how he was, and was told he hadn’t moved for quite awhile. It was calm and quiet. Then somebody, I think it was my brother-in-law Jim asked, “how did the race go?” I quietly said, “I won”. My dad’s eyes opened, he looked right at me. I was by the foot of his bed. He sort of sat up, smiled and said, “atta boy!”
That’s him. That’s the kind of father he was. It never mattered what was happening to him. It was always about me.
I hope, I try, to be like him. I am so grateful that he was my dad.
