I could tell he was good and tired, having already covered over 3 miles of trail that bent up and down and twisted around like it had been laid out by a drunken sailor. His 11-year-old legs were feeling it. It was his call, I told him – and either answer was perfectly acceptable – right or left? Then I stood silently as he pondered his options…

Frankly, this dilemma was not part of the original plan. Clear skies and coolish temperatures that morning promised a beautiful day to be out and about, and the final NMTC trail race of the year was on the calendar, with a pot-luck dinner to follow. A quick glance at the race web site earlier in the week had indicated 5K was on the docket. 5K? Pretty short… perhaps a nice day to take my son, and have him join me for a jaunt through the woods.

When I broached the subject with Colter, his ears perked up at the mention of those golden words, “pot luck dinner”. Even at his young age, he’s caught on to the fact that such dinners are comprised of approximately 60% desserts. He had to earn his eats though, I told him, which entailed running the trail race. His quick bit of mental math determined 5K for copious brownies was a fair trade – and he was in.

So, it was a bit of a surprise when we arrived at Hartley Nature Center and learned the race had been upped to a 10K. Colter’s face registered instant trepidation. The comfort zone had been breached… Now, Colter is not a runner in a sense that includes training, running regular races, and the like. It’s just not a big blip on his radar at the moment. That being said, he’s not a couch potato either. He plays basketball, baseball, downhill ski races – we get out and about. We figured he could work his way through 5K, but 6+ miles of trail work? Hmmm. Not wanting this to come off like the ol’ bait-and-switch, I told him simply, let’s just go run – get about 5K in as we previously agreed and make a call at that point. That seemed reasonable to him. So when the crowd burst from the starting line, off we went.

Obviously I’m not entirely objective, but I was impressed with the fashion in which he knocked out the trail, at times I even had to tell him to relax a bit and save some gas in the tank. He was steady, relentless. But trail running is what it is, and as he ticked past 3 rolling, twisting miles on untrained legs the whole “over the river and through the woods” thing was taking its toll. Until, finally, we arrived at the crossroads. He was tired, and said as much. But there was something else there…

Colter stood for some moments, and I could see the gears turning. Left, pain over. Right, more hills, rocks and roots, dog-tiring – but an official finish. Then… I saw The Look. That look I’ve seen on ultra-running colleagues deep in races. It’s the “Let’s just finish this [bleeping] thing!” look. (No, he didn’t say it – but if he had I wouldn’t have made him put a quarter in the swear jar. Though I might have asked him not to tell his mom.) He turned and headed off following the pink ribbons. A few grind-it-out miles later as we neared the finish, I asked him if he had anything left – and he answered by sprinting in, finishing his first 10K like an Olympic medal was to be had. I’m not sure which of us was beaming more broadly as we crossed the line.

It was a Proud Papa moment for certain. But though it was golden, I still have no idea if running will become a beloved pastime to my son as it has for me. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. True in some cases, I suppose. But for all I know this apple may hit the ground, roll down an embankment and end up in the field next door. That’s OK, he’s young – and as we mature we’re all entitled to map our own paths. I figure my job at this point is to keep filling his toolbox with experiences, lead by example and give him opportunities to accomplish things that initially seem out of reach. I won’t dictate his map, but that doesn’t preclude me from lending him a compass.

And who knows? Maybe someday he’ll be looking for an outlet, he’ll reach into that toolbox – and it will ultimately lead him to crossing the finish line of his first ultramarathon. Perhaps he’ll catch his breath, pause and quietly say, “Thanks, Dad.” With any luck the gentleman that finishes right behind him will respond, “No thanks necessary, son. We’re even.” When it comes to inspiration, we always have been.

We had so many adventures, running over road and trail – at every race distance from 1 mile to 100. She’d also kept track of the legs as I rode my bike across Minnesota from border to border, and timed passage to each trailhead as I hiked and ran virtually every mile of the Superior Hiking Trail. Her unassuming digits would silently increment as we wiled away the hours logging thousands upon thousands of training miles.

I knew the end would come eventually, but somehow I thought it would be more compelling. (Caution, dream sequence ahead…) Out on a rocky, mountainous trail I am hammering some single-track when, as I take a hard turn, my feet slip and I go careening over a precipice. I plunge to my certain demise, but my fall is suddenly halted – when the Velcro band of my faithful watch catches on a branch sticking out from the cliff face.

As I dangle helplessly, I hear the whump, whump, whump of a helicopter overhead and soon a man in an orange jumpsuit is lowered down on a cable. My rescuer grabs hold of me and pulls me upward, but progress is stopped… the Velcro holds fast. “I can save you, but we’re going to have to cut it loose,” he yells over the roar of the chopper. Before I can object he pulls out a knife, slicing cleanly through the black nylon weave that had saved my life. The winch whisks us upward. “You’re safe now,” he says. But I’m in a daze. My eyes are cast downward, following the slowly tumbling shape of a longtime friend. She turns over and over as she falls, as if in slow motion. Her face appears one last time, and I see her Indiglo night light flash on and off, as if to say, “So long, my friend, it’s been real.” Then, she disappears into the abyss…

Well, that’s the way it should have gone. But, alas, the real story is she disappeared somewhere in a large hotel in Wisconsin Dells – falling out of a bag she was stashed in. Perhaps at the pool, or somewhere along a hallway – hard to say. Despite my dogged search efforts, she never turned up. An inauspicious ending to a beautiful friendship.

But maybe, just maybe, she had just decided her job was done here – she had taken me as far as we could go together, and there were others out there. I imagine someone, perhaps a young boy, picking her up off the floor and wrapping her around his wrist. Suddenly all the joy, pain and wisdom of countless miles flows out of her casing and into his body – and he suddenly feels an insatiable need to put on a pair of shoes and head outside to find a trail. Like a digital yogi, she begins to teach… Relax, young one, let the trail come to you – and the pace will follow…

So, now I look at the new timepiece that hugs my wrist. She’s younger, sexy in her black band and graceful LED numerals. She knows a few more tricks than the old gal, that’s for sure. Likely, it will take a few miles, and some bits of reddish-brown mud from the Powerlines stuck between her buttons, before we start to become inseparable. I imagine that time will come.

But then, perhaps this is all just plain silly. After all, I’m a grown man – and maybe I should just stop all this hand-wringing over a long outdated chronograph that’s gone wayward. I mean, in the end, it was just a watch…

Wasn’t it?