My dad, who is well past the age of being able to draw social security, must be the most physically fit man in the whole state of Texas, or in the whole wide world, for that matter. After a million years of working his small farm, and 30 years in the construction business, Dad finally retired, which meant he then had plenty of time to worry about staying in shape. He took up running, “jogging,” he called it. 

As Mom and I sat in the living room watching television, Dad would trot off and return huffing and puffing. What could be more ideal? Jogging would keep him healthy, could be done at his own convenience, and was absolutely free.

The changes were subtle at first. He gave up beer and chips and began eating fruit and his home-grown vegetables. Now and then we'd find a running magazine open on the coffee table.

Gradually, the time Dad was out jogging increased. What started out as a 15-minute jog around the gardens turned into enough time for Mom and me to read the newspaper, do the crossword puzzles, start supper and set the table. I was beginning to have my doubts about jogging being the ideal exercise for such an old man.

He began talking about it all the time. It crept into our dinner conversations, our just-before-you-go-to-bed talks, and even into our written communications. “Gone for a jog. Be right back. Love, Pop.” Gone was his life of leisure. In its place was an obsession to stay in shape.

Mom and I learned that any jogger...and real jogger...must have a few basic pieces of equipment. Over a short period of time, my dad accumulated a dozen pair of shorts, sweat pants, two warm-up suits, and foul-weather gear (waterproof jacket and hat). Also, since the joy of jogging includes the joy of profuse sweating, each day's outfit required laundering.

It's true, too, that Dad spent money on his feet, but it's also true that in spite of expensive jogging shoes, blisters plagued my daddy's toes. Before jogging, toes got smeared with Vaseline. After jogging, lengthy examinations and certain surgical procedures involving needles waved through matches were performed. Next, gauze pads, bandages and adhesive tape were applied. All of this is then stuffed into the perfect sock. (That particular sock, by the way, contained just the right percentage of cotton and polyester and was the result of many shopping excursions. It emerged as the favorite over dozens of pairs of once-hopefuls. Dad considered himself lucky because some joggers never find the perfect sock.) After a few dabs of liniment to a calf or two, my dad's ritual ended. Total time: too much. Total cost: certainly not free. 

Once a jogger's jog around the farm and beyond becomes routine, the things a wife and daughter might have complained about become worse. New horrors emerge. All stops are pulled because, lo and behold, a parking lot in downtown Dallas looms on the horizon over 20 miles from the farm. Nothing but the best is now a necessity because the one item skimped on could be the cause of serious injury. 

Dad's toe problem convinced him that $200 shoes were his only hedge against foul feet, and while we were all in the store looking at shoes, the clerk talked him into tiny little short shorts to match the shoes, and then into a shirt to match the shorts, which matched the shoes. “It'll help you to breathe,” said the clerk, or something like that was said. Mom and I had stopped listening. We were paying a rather large sum of money for what looked to us to be a pair of sneakers, teeny-weeny short shorts and a shirt full of holes. Then in keeping with the spirit of things, Dad bought a half-dozen magic-blend socks and the entire line of Desenex foot-care products. 

Dad's training schedule, clipped from some authoritative source, was posted on the refrigerator. One hour one day, two hours the next, and so forth.

“I'll do the downtown run on the Memorial Day weekend,” he said. “That'll give me time to work up to it.”

“We'll follow you in the car,” said Mom, and Dad just laughed.

One evening a few days before the scheduled event, Dad limped past us to his favorite chair, amidst a waft of Ben Gay. He set up his foot and began tending to his tortured toes. When Mom noticed he had finished wrapping his toes, she casually asked, “Hey, love, how are the new shoes working out?” kindly withholding the phrase two-hundred dollar shoes.

“They've been hurting my feet,” Dad replied. “I think I'll wear the old ones for the jog into the city.”

“That makes sense,” I said...my tongue was developing a permanent indentation from the biting it had been taking. “We wouldn't want you to hurt your feet.”

On the morning of the big day, we awoke to a cloudy sky and a breezy wind. “Good jogging weather,” Dad said, twisting an orange into juice. “I'm sure glad it's not raining.” He emptied his glass of orange juice in one long swallow.

At nine o'clock, Dad was out the door, off and running, and Mom and I followed him in Mom's car as he jogged along the side of the road.

Four hours, thirteen minutes and five seconds later, Mom and I were parked in the lot. After jogging along for exactly nineteen and two-tenths miles (according to the odometer), Dad dashed full-speed ahead, leaped and landed seat-first on the hood of Mom's car. 

I stuck my head out the window. “You made it,” I said, trying to sound cheerful “Are you all right?”

Nothing to it,” he said, and then after a pause, turned to look at Mom. “Hey, woman,” he said, “take a look in the glove box.” 

I opened the glove compartment. Inside, I found a brochure, a reservation for two at a beach-side hotel, and plane tickets to Corpus Christi.

“Surprise!” Dad shouted. “I'm going to do some jogging on a beach. You want to come?”

“Love to,” Mom replied, and I decided right then and there that jogging wasn't such a bad idea after all, even for such an old man. “I'll stick around and take care of things,” I said.

Mom was crying. Dad was laughing.