On butterflies and fathers

Butterfly
I wish I could claim this picture, but I found it on Flickr.

Tuesday would have been my dad’s 78th birthday. He died 12 years ago, when I was only 25 years old.

I had taken his presence in my life for granted. My dad would be around for a while, right?

While I was young and naive in these thoughts, I was old enough to recognize the enormity of the almost suffocating loss his death would bring to my life.

To say that he would have enjoyed being a part of the running and triathlon community is a gross understatement. An athlete in his younger years, he understood the dedication of working toward a goal, he reveled in the competition, and he enjoyed the comraderie of those in the community.

My first athletic experiences as a high school rower were shared with him. My father would get up for our early morning, sun-just-rising crew practices to record our workouts, so that my coach could use the video as a training tool. In addition to attending our practices, he and my mother came to almost every race, which is quite remarkable when you consider the closest race was over an hour away.

Simply put, he loved it. And athleticism was something we could share. Even 12 years after his death, it continues to connect me to him.

Every time I race, I think of him. During tough training workouts, I call upon his strength to help keep me going. Last season, his strength, along with some butterflies, propeled me to the finish line.

Butterflies?

Let me explain.

A little over a year after my father’s death, John and I married in a small ceremony, outside on the mountains of Vermont. My nephew took video of the ceremony, and within the first few moments, a butterfly alighted on the lens, its multicolored wings caressing the front of lens. It left and returned to the camera lens several times.

I’m here!

From the moment I saw the video, I knew who it was. Since that day, I recognize the presence of a butterfly as the presence of my father.

Last year, these butterflies and the connection to my father helped me find a strength of will I wasn’t sure I had. But there it was – just like the butterfly on the lens.

Chasing butterflies

My 2010 racing season was challenged by the residual anxiety from a bike crash I had in early April, 2010. I found each bike ride to be an incredible struggle with my fears, and lurking dangers such as cars, rain and steep, technical descents. There were days I was almost immobilized from the anxiety.

Our first major triathlon of the season last year was Mooseman 70.3, in New Hamsphire. The day brought with it a soaking rain, and the consequent anxiety about managing a particularly tricky 3-mile descent. I remember starting the swim wondering if I would even be able to finish the bike.

Yes, the fear was that bad, that irrational.

Yet, something interesting happened on the bike. Despite pouring rain during that race, there were a series of butterflies that appeared during my ride. I noticed the first one flitting along to the right side of my bike, and recognized the quiet strength it offered. I prayed to my dad to help me fight my fears and finish that bike. I weeped, but I kept on going.

My dad, around age 50-55.

As I racked my bike in the transition area–after 56 miles in the POURING rain–I was grateful for my father’s ongoing counsel in my life. I had finished one of the most technically difficult rides I had ever had. I wasn’t fast, but I was finished.

While my fears continued throughout the season, the butterflies kept with me. We traveled to Lake Placid in June for the Fireman Ironman Training Camp, and the butterflies were with me as I whizzed down one of the  longest, steepest descents I’ve completed yet. In fact, that day, I saw more butterflies than I think I’ve ever seen in my life.

Of course, I’ve seen the butterflies at times other than while cycling – but they seem to appear at those moments I need them the very most.

Whenever I see them, I talk to them, “I can do this, dad.”

“Thanks for being here, dad.”

“I wish you could be here with me, dad.”

When I see the butterfly, I know that he is.

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