PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Ever since I can remember, my father would wake up early in the morning to go for a run. Not a ten-kilometer run, not a little trot, he would get up and run for minutes and hours and he wouldn’t mind. Every day, without exceptions, he would get out of bed, put on his running shoes, his sportswear, a cap, and go out to train. Somedays he would come tired, a little (or a lot) sweaty, but with a big smile on his face. This was, and still is, the best way to start his day. When he came back, he would put his running shoes in the porch, and these were always there waiting for the next training, the next adventure. He has always had a lot of passion in his heart, but nothing made him as passionate as those long marathons; people call them ultra because they are for ultra-people, people who always give that extra mile, and my dad is one of them. He could spend one entire day running, and he actually did it more than once, without any problem.  All those kilometers ran, always accompanied by his running shoes. I remember that when he would buy new ones, he would have this big and beautiful smile, like a little child with a new toy or a candy; he knew at that moment that those things were going to be put on his feet and they would be his company in mountains, rivers, raining days, difficult trails and steep roads... These shoes have taken him to a lot of places, meeting new people, new cultures, new countries; they have accompanied him in the pursuing of his goals and dreams, in every defeat and triumph. Because they are more than just shoes, they are the rails that take my father to the happiness of finishing a race, of fulfilling his goals… his unconditional company in the satisfaction of giving his best in what he’s passionate about. Even though he chooses them wisely and with precaution, he has always said that the shoes don’t make the runner, it is the runner that makes the shoes, it is the passion that pushes the runner to move on. The running shoes are the company, the gear, but the passion is the gasoline. And I can tell you, dear reader, it seems to me that my father will never run out of gasoline.