I would like to take a moment to acknowledge my heroes.
My Dad and Derek. Let me tell you a story.
This past weekend Dad, Derek, and I ran the St. George Marathon. (My dad's 21st marathon, my 2nd marathon, and Derek's first). A few weeks prior to the marathon I hurt my right knee on a long training run. But due to my stubborness and pride (a Paxton thing) I ran anyway.
First of all, they decided to run with me, slow, to save my knee as much as possible. (And Derek looked funny runnign that slow. He could've sped walked the entire time).
I'd tell him to run ahead, but he would not leave me. I started to feel dull pain at mile 4, pretty good pain by mile 7, and it was stabbing by mile 10 or 11. At mile 13.1 (half way) we had my knee wrapped. Bad Idea. Because it was wrapped I couldn't move it as much, so my left knee started to compensate, so now they were both hurting....wonderful....soon my old hip injury started to bug as well. The last half of the marathon is downhill. Death on the knees. So what does dad do?
He takes my hand in his and wraps his arm under mine so I can lean my weight on him as we ran in perfect strides together. At mile 15.5 I could no longer hide the pain I was in and he and Derek called me out on it. When it hit me that I was not going to finish the race I broke down and cried. Yes, I Kathryn Paxton Storrs cried. Not because of pain, but because I had to swallow my pride and humiliation and give up. Something Paxtons don't do. To my good fortune (divine intervention) a race shuttle for the gimps drove by at that moment, so we flagged it down and they took me to the finish.
As if that isn't enough.
I made them both cry. (I didn't know this or else I wouldn't have been able to cover my tears before the shuttle left). But they cried because I cried. Because there was nothing they could do for me. They couldn't make it better. They felt helpless. And they love me.
Once I left they both ran as hard as they could (and it was a record hot year) to get to the finish to make sure I was ok.
We were running about a 4:20 pace by the time I left (because of the stops). Derek made up 20 minutes in 10 miles. He was running fast. And it was hot. I was proud.
(I guess he was mad at the marathon for hurting me and he felt helpless. So all he could do was show the marathon who was boss.) Dad didn't run quite as hard as derek, but
he gave it his all. When he got to mile 24ish he came across a girl completely sprawled out in the gutter.
So he stopped and started giving her the medical attention she needed until they could get her to the medical tent at the finish line. He didn't know her. He had a race to finish. But he didn't care. This girl needed help and he was willing to give it. Just like the Good Samaritan. Who knows how many runners ran right past her. How many thought Oh how terrible? How many didn't even notice?
He was a lot more tired at the end of this marathon that usual. It was hot. And he gave it his all. He gave it everything. He was my rock the entire time, he kept me going, helped me save myself, and helped save a stranger. If that isn't hero quality, I don't know what is.