My Pops and I used to run marathons together.

It’s odd to be living a moment and, at the same time, hope that you remember that moment forever.

I remember standing at the start of the Chicago Marathon with 30,000 other runners. The skyline loomed over us as we made sure we had everything we needed for the next 26.2 miles.

As the Star-Spangled Banner started playing, I started to cry.

“Why are you crying?” Pops asked.

“Because I’m so happy to be here, and I never want to forget this moment.”

By mile 20, I was singing a different tune.

I was tired. Cranky. Dehydrated. And I really, really wanted to be done.

Whenever our family does something hard, we say the same thing:

This is a marathon, not a sprint.

I said this to Pops on Friday, talking about this journey we’re on.

He thought about it and said, “This is more like the Leadville 100.”

Fair point.

If you don’t know the Leadville 100, it’s a 100-mile running race through the Colorado Rockies. The entire course sits above 9,200 feet, climbing to Hope Pass at more than 12,500 feet. Runners have 30 hours to finish.

It is a monster.

At this time, I should point out that Pops and I have never run the Leadville 100. Nor do we have any intention of doing so.

But when we think about really, really hard things—the kind that require massive endurance, grit and moxie—we think about Leadville.

The race starts at 4:00 in the morning, and the first stretch is considered “deceptively easy.”

Although if any 12-mile run beginning at 4:00 a.m. can be considered easy, well, I guess this would be it.

I think about those first couple of “good days” after surgery that way.

Every step is a good step.
Every bit of healing is good healing.

But there is still a lot of race left.

There are climbs ahead. There are times when you have to dig deep. And there are times when you simply can’t dig any deeper.

Right now, both Pops and Cynde are battling colds. A cold is enough to make anyone feel crappy. Add in the pillaging of the Tum, and you feel crappier. And let’s not forget the small matter of battling cancer.

They are in the middle of all of it.

And sometimes, it is just really hard.

At mile 50 of the Leadville 100, runners can have a pacer—someone who runs alongside them, offers encouragement and helps carry the load.

Pacing is a delicate balance.

You have to know when to encourage someone, when to help, and when to back off and let them run their own race.

I think maybe that’s where all of us are right now.

We’re the pacers.

Although, I have to tell you, I would be a terrible pacer.

Not only are my knees bad, but I get terribly anxious and immediately feel the need to fix and manage everything.

How are your feet?
Do you need a cookie?
Can I carry your pack?
No, really. Let me carry your pack.
You’d like me to stop talking?
Okay.
Can I sing?

So perhaps my lesson in all of this is learning how to be a respectful pacer.

To run alongside the people I love without trying to run the race for them.

Chemo starts again on Friday, and we will learn a little more about the success of the surgery and what the miles ahead look like.

Until then, please keep Pops and Cynde in your thoughts.

Offer encouragement.

Offer a cookie.

Offer to carry the pack.

But if they insist on carrying it themselves, that’s okay too.

Sometimes the most important thing a pacer can do is simply stay beside you.

There are still miles ahead.