Deadman's Hill- Rough Draft

I am an activist. Definition: Someone who is passionate about being active. Don’t get me wrong, I love sitting down on a rainy day with a favorite movie or catching up with my favorite shows on Hulu, but if I take the time to do that, I often wonder if I could’ve spent my time in a more productive manner. If I take the time to wander through my memories past familiar faces and down old streets, I can usually find where that passion came from.
Early on in my journey, I think that it came from being so involved with high school and college athletics. I was competitive on a team that, at the time, was nationally ranked. But when I reflect on my more recent athletic endeavors, I feel like my collegiate involvement is simply the root for my feelings of failure. I must not do it for the thrill of competition, because that is not the driving force behind my desires for activity. It must go further back than that…
Humidity is at the source of my desires for activity. On Saturday mornings, the August air hung over our subdivision like a tarp shading us from the pure air in the atmosphere. I would be eagerly waiting on my lavender Huffy, rolling the wheels back and forth to make the spoke do-dads as noisy as possible in order to show my impatience. You can’t rush the master of routine though. Dad went through his routine at his own pace. It’s as if any deviation might create chaos in the universe. Dad would put on his calf-length white cotton socks (he still wears them today, unless there’s rain) and lace up his Reebok Aztreks (God forbid he wear any other type of shoe). After that he would sit in the basement and run through his stretching routine (never mind that he never warmed up prior to this). Butterfly, hurdlers, quads, hip flexors, repeat. Later on, his back and ab stretches also were integrated, but this was only a necessity out of old age. Finally, he would hand me the bottle of orange flavored Gatorade with it’s green and carroty colored top to stick in my water-bottle holder and we would pull out of the driveway. As we turned the corner, Dad would start his watch, always double-checking to make sure it started on the first hit. We would wind through our subdivision, which was mostly my world and head out to another dimension, crossing the Grand River, a majestic river to a child who had not yet been inundated with messages of pollution and filth that Lower Michigan’s industries contributed to it. We headed up the hill with a quick left on Delta River drive that, at the time, was a dirt road with an enormous hill that I could fly down. I let myself coast past my dad, enjoying this part of the ride to its fullest since I knew he could easily catch up as I waited at the bottom.
On this particular day, our journey was past our usual yellow caution sign turning point. This time we turned left onto Eaton Highway and I had to give my dad a swig of his Gatorade at the bridge over I-96. The amount of sweat under my helmet was a drop compared to the rainstorm of beads over the bulging vein in his forehead. Somehow though, even after we turned around, my dad was able to keep that same steady pace. The dirt road became rough terrain for me as I tired, and as we rounded the curve on Delta River Drive, I saw that fun downhill taunting me and I realized, “Shoot, I have to go up this, don’t I?” I was tough though, I didn’t dare let my dad know that this intimidated me, even though I’ve had to walk up it many times before. I pushed harder at the bottom and as we started slowing on the ascent, I could hear my dad singing softly. “Hmmm, hmm, hm. Hmmm, hmm hm.” I made the assumption that he was pushing himself along with a tune until it got louder. “Deadman’s hill, deadman’s hill, we’re going up deadman’s hill.” He repeated it until I joined in and suddenly, I forgot about the hill and focused more on our song. When we crested the top, the last little part where you think you’re done, but somehow the flat is still so hard to ride, he changed the verse to “Deadman’s hill, deadman’s hill, we made it up deadman’s hill.” I was so excited that I finally was able to do it and even more excited that the song made it a breeze. “Dad,” I asked, “What makes you want to do this everyday, in 90 degrees, in snow, and in rain?”
“Kara,” he replied, “Someday, when you love something, nothing makes you do it. You do it because you need to. It’s like breathing. When I don’t do it, it just doesn’t feel right.”
**How the heck to I end this piece without sounding cliche??

If I walk through the years with my memory to my adult self, I realize that its not about the coach getting in your face for skimping on a workout, its not about your teammates, your parents, your tuition; it’s about yourself and breathing.