Part 1 of this unplanned series is perhaps partly the result of some dad guilt. Ella was the star of the last show and Novi deserves to get her moment in the spotlight, too.

Actually, the inspiration came from a father-daughter date wherein Ella stayed home with Mom and I took Novi to her first-ever running race.

Every fall, the Vail Recreation District hosts three Mighty Marmot Kids Trail races. The events attract about 150 4-12-year-olds and feature 1 mile and 2 mile options, a post-race pizza and ice cream party and a little awards ceremony. We missed the first two races because of my work and the Pikes Peak Double weekend, so I knew I had to sign up for the Oct. 3 Beaver Creek run. I told Novi about my intentions probably three weeks before the actual race — when she was in a moment of peak attentiveness.

“Novi, do you want to do a race?” I asked as she scampered around the living room, talking to herself, baby in carrier, imaginary camping trip in full production.

“Yeah,” she replied without making eye contact. I’m somewhat convinced I could have asked her if she wanted to eat asparagus exclusively at every meal for the rest of her life and donate all of her toys to Goodwill and she would have replied similarly. Anyway, two days after the Pikes weekend, I was kissing Novi goodnight when she looked up at me and asked, “Daddy, is my race tomorrow?”

Alright, she did hear me, I thought.

We put a stick-figure picture of me running with her on the Oct. 3 box of her wall calendar and she checked off the days in anticipation. Short circuit to Dan Weiland, I didn’t incorporate any structured training into Novi’s schedule, other than copious amounts of free play (So, I guess I was following U.S. Ski and Snowboard’s Level 200 recommendations for 4 and under workouts). She already rides her little Specialized bike everywhere, so the cardio was there, but I was a little apprehensive about her actual running economy going in … JK….I digress.

Actually, my only REAL hesitations stemmed from memories of my first race.

I was 6 (I think….). I lined up for the 1997? Dominos Mile Run, a fundraiser for the Moorhead Spuds cross-country teams. I remember taking off from the Gooseberry Park start line and sprinting all-out alongside my brother and future North Dakota 300-meter hurdle legend Ellie Grooters for maybe 40 seconds. After realizing my heart was uncontrollably slamming against my rib cage — and that I suddenly was experiencing this foreign phenomena of breathlessness and lactic acid build-up — I logically proceeded to stop. I then quit.

I think my Mom was there and I assume she was probably baffled and justifiably embarrassed. I’m guessing she tried to convince me to keep going, walk a little bit, whatever, but stubborn me was having none of it. I was done. Day over.

And, as they say, the rest is history.

Fortunately, I ended up finding my way back to endurance sports — on my own terms. But as I drove the 55 minutes alone with my daughter on Friday, singing through the continents and oceans song, chatting about the difference between a state and a country, what happened to Gilman or whether we might see a moose on the side of the road, I spliced in some strategical mental imagery.

“Do you remember what the course does during the first half?” I asked. I looked at Novi’s blank stare through the rearview mirror, hoping she’d recall our rather investigative study of the GPS course map on my computer an hour prior.

“Does it go up or down first?” I prodded.

“Up,” she said, her memory sufficiently jogged.

“What’s your strategy? Are you going to go out really fast?”
“I’m going to go out like…. 100% fast,” she answered.

“Sounds like a plan,” I said, concluding the pre-race interview. I reminded myself that it was probably most important for ME to mentally visualize the myriad of possible situations I might encounter.

Novi, I thought, might run 200 meters and then tell me she’s done, too. For crying out loud, she’s only 4. I was 2 years older for my ‘debut.’ Furthermore, she’s running up a 14% gravel pitch for half a mile on a course that is billed as being one mile but is actually a 1.2 mile loop….at 8,800 feet of elevation. I ran a downhill start on a paved road at sea level and crumpled into a mess on the side of the street.

There was another thought, though. What if she, like, won? What would I say then? How would I handle that. Does it matter? She’s seen her dad step on a podium or two at these Vail Rec races and watched me win more than a few loppets, mostly in front of these same people. I mean, this isn’t a Lebron/Bronny situation, but still, what if they throw out a seemingly harmless comment, subconsciously placing a burden on her she doesn’t deserve.

The other scenarios — puking at the halfway point, being more mesmerized by the flowers on the trail, tripping on a rock and scraping her knee — were lumped together into my brain and worked out on the side while I found a parking spot, picked up her bib and walked into the bowels of Beaver Creek to put it on (placing the car keys on a random table in the process. I would discover two hours later that those keys just sat there the entire time….that’s right….we’re ALLL good here.).

Before jumping to the play-by-play, I need to make a public address: if you’re someone who has multiple kids, I want to tell you right now that you NEED to plan one-on-one dates with each of them. It’s just insane how different the dynamic is. Even back at the house before we left, Novi was receptive and excited when I logged off of work, went into her room and started collaborating with her on different outfits. She picked out a cool pair of shorts and then we searched for a matching shirt.

Then I had her test them out.

“These might be kind of big,” I said. “Here, let’s tie them and then you run down to daddy’s office and see how they feel.”

A big smile came across her face.

“Go test them out,” I said, turning her body and encouraging her out the bedroom door. I could hear her giggle with joy as she did her 20-foot strider.

“These feel pretty good,” she said.

I pulled out a pair of white shorts.

“Here, these might be better,” I said.

“Oh yeah, those might be better,” she agreed, clearly saying something only to feel more apart of this developing adult conversation.

“There are a little smaller and might be lighter,” I continued. “You want to have them feel really light and fast.”

While Novi normally makes up her mind and sticks to it, the exclusive attention she was receiving from me had turned her into the most open-minded, mature 4-year-old ever. We were equals after all, dreaming and scheming for the race.

“OK,” I said, “Do another strider.”

She jubilantly tore away from the room. A second later, she returned, beaming almost as bright as her dad would be three hours later. These were the shorts.

“Do you want a Bible-verse tattoo like Daddy?” I said.
“Yeah!” she responded.

We went to the kitchen, where she has a verse attached to each letter of the alphabet hanging above our table.

“Which one do you want?” I said as I readied her purple (of course) Sharpie.

She’s still 4, so she just looked at ‘A’ and said, “All of have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” While that has theological significance, I prodded her to the next letter and got her to agree with “Be strong and very courageous.” It seemed more appropriate. Then, we packed a little bag with her ‘warm-up’ sweatshirt, filled water bottle, a banana and set off.

Uncharacteristically (for a Sederquist), we showed up so early that we actually had to burn about 25 minutes. First, Novi joined in with the other early birds running laps around the turf in-field, jamming to the DJ’s beats in the middle of the mock-Swiss mountain town center. Then we played some bean bag toss. Then we went to the bathroom. Then we sat down on the couches to rest. Finally, we did some stretches. Then we went to the bathroom again — because even though Dad wasn’t racing, he still has those issues if there is a start line involved.

As we waited in the ‘4 and under’ corral, Novi started doing leg swings, which I swear I’ve not only never showed her but probably last conducted myself at the St. Cloud Tech Invite in 2009.

Finally, the gun went off.

Novi and I dashed out near the back. Her face was bursting with joy as she spent most of her energy looking around at the other kids. She loves people. Loves friends. Loves being in a group. I could tell she was not really racing; just thrilled to be participating in a community. Around 200 meters in she noticed all the other kids grabbing their parents’ hands. Wanting to fit in, she grabbed mine.

“You might want to pump your arms,” I suggested.

The course turned past the street, over some steps and entered the base area of the resort. We passed a lift and hopped onto a very steep singletrack. Without much room to work, I was caught in a somewhat foreign situation for me — trapped in a slow-moving conga line up a hill. As desperate parents already started coaxing their worn out kids, Novi yanked on my arm and tried to pass on the outside. My first proud dad moment.

We hit Cinch, a gravel road traversing the ski hill to the top of the Centennial Lift. I looked around. My mind flashed back to a painful threshold run I’d put myself through on a foggy Saturday about two months prior. It occurred to me that every time I do uphill-only sessions here — even in peak fitness — I am immediately thrust into the pain cave, even at like, 8:45 mile pace, on this very pitch. And here Novi was, striving to put one foot in front of the other on the same road.

She ran. She walked. She ran some more. She never stopped. She never talked the whole way except to say, ‘hold my hand,’ and only then then in moments where I couldn’t help but imitate my own parents in trying to push her out of the nest a little. I didn’t force it, though. My heart simultaneously warmed and worried as I watched as beads of sweat start to run down her forehead.

“Good job Novi,” I kept saying over and over. “You’re doing great! We’re almost to the top.”
The last part genuinely felt like a lie, even for me …and that’s saying something. I’ve become somewhat numb to false summits this summer (that’s what running up Mt. Elbert six times in one month will do to a person). Alas, Novi shocked me in that she never once complained or even hinted at the frustration of this never-ending climb with no respite in sight.

Finally, a sign directing traffic onto a descent appeared.

“There’s the sign,” I said, finally deciding to stick to facts instead of baseless optimism in the face of a grinding uphill.

Novi took the turn and started to fly. Later, while shoveling pizza into her mouth on the finish line turf, she would remark to a fellow toddler on her downhill prowess: “I was like….COASTING…on the downhill.”

At home the next morning, she said something even more revealing.

“I was trying to just run as fast as I could.”

Now, she didn’t want to hold my hand. I (wisely, I think) extended it at certain trouble sections in hopes of preventing a bloody crash. I was genuinely amazed at how reckless and fast she sprinted over big rocks and down the technical doubletrack. She didn’t get her Kilian Jornet-esque skills from me that’s for sure. I guess she only inherited the person-vs.-self dynamic.

As we dashed ever closer to the village finish, I could hear Novi’s breathing. She almost sounded like she was going to throw up. It didn’t matter. Neither did the little boy who kept looking back. He was clearly racing her, but she didn’t seem interested. Whatever intrinsic chemical reactions were firing off were enough for her.

We screamed through the brick roads back to the venue and across the finish line. Novi walked a few steps and then started to look around with her red face, just taking it all in.

“I’m so proud of you,” I smiled. “Do you want me to get a popsicle?”

She nodded.

After devouring 2 1/2 pieces of pizza and a popsicle, we waited for awards. Novi sat on my lap. By now, I could tell she’d gone from sweaty to clammy and cold. She curled up into my chest, the effects of her efforts starting to set in.

The 4-and-under 1-mile runners were called up. Everyone got to walk on stage; then the top-3 were called onto the podium. In my heart — and future Novi will either thank me or have to forgive me — I thought to myself, “Lord, just have her not be in the top-3.” During the race, we had no idea of place. After, with everything having gone so well, I felt a specially-colored ribbon or podium ceremony might actually take away from the moment, or worse, have some other down-the-road consequence.

Novi was fifth. She almost didn’t want to go on stage without me, but eventually, seeing the crowd of fellow competitors file up the stairs, was OK following.

We watched a little longer and then decided we’d better get back to the ranch. After bounding (the prospects of riding back up the escalator had rejuvenated her) to the basement of the parking garage, I realized my keys were not in either pocket. We checked everywhere around the car and I even turned my phone light on and did a dreadful peek inside the locked Toyota. I audibly sighed when I couldn’t see them.

“Well, first, let’s pray,” I said, kneeling down. Novi followed. We said a quick prayer. “Now, let’s just retrace our steps.”

I had a feeling of two spots where the keys might be, and thankfully, we found them right away.

On the drive back, I talked with Novi until Minturn. I could tell she was going to crash hard. She put her sweatshirt on and pulled her baby to her chest. She’ll make a good mom someday, I thought. Before we made it to Red Cliff, she was asleep.

I’ve been playing competitive sports for three decades. Of all the games and races I’ve been a part of, none have left me feeling as full, satisfied and happy as this one. It was a father-daughter date I’ll never forget.

The next evening, I had the opportunity to go to a wedding — the first one I’d been to in 6 or 7 years. It was a small wedding, but a beautiful wedding. One of the best I’ve ever been to.

The love story was simply wonderful. One that only God himself could pen. The second of three daughters moves away from Pennsylvania to Leadville and meets an ultra runner whose trials and tribulations surpass any peak or valley he’s traversed on foot. In the most unlikely of scenarios, they find God and each other.

And as they say, the rest is history.

During the first dance, I watched the father of the bride. For one of the first times in my life, I really, truly realized just how hard it can be to be a dad.

I know in our modern age, men are seen as only having all the advantages, of being in positions of power and of getting to do whatever they want and remain irresponsible kids forever. There’s truth to those caricatures, of course, but there’s another sign of the coin, too.

When things are tough, happy, or sad — or tough-happy-sad, like in this moment — dads have to remain stoic. They don’t usually get a shoulder to cry on in moments like these — and that’s probably how it should be. I wanted to walk over and just ask the father of the bride, ‘Hey, how are you doing?’ ….as if I could possibly know…

Ella and Novi were standing in front of me, mesmerized by the bride and groom’s affectionate looks at one another. Don’t kid yourself, I told myself. Tomorrow, they’ll be dancing and you’ll be sitting over there.

If you’re lucky, you’ll be crying tears of joy, just like him, because you’ve handed her off to someone who can lead her well.

Someone who can get her excited about the race of life, give her a good game plan, guide her over the mountain and watch her spirited descent. Someone who can help her to push herself to the limit so she becomes the woman God created her to be. Someone who will cheer for her the whole way and never leave her side.

It won’t be long.

I suppose it won’t be long until I’m trying to keep up with Novi on a run, too. Until then, I guess I have to just make the most of every mile.

——Keep on striving, Keep on skiing —-