Another step

Panting up Heartbreak Hill at the Parc Montsouris this morning, I called on an image which often comes to mind at such exhausted-to-the-point-of-giving-up moments.

It is a sweltering Sunday morning in Hong Kong. I am nine years old, and sulking. As part of his campaign to get me interested in physical exercise, my father has taken me jogging. I am dragging resentfully behind, gasping and gulping the viscous heat, considering tears. We are plodding up a dusty road to the headland reserve above Clearwater Bay, where the cliff top pagoda shimmers distantly. Hearing my exaggerated huffs of pain, Dad turns and waits while I, sweating and scowling, catch up.

“I can’t run any more. It’s too far”
“Come on, you’re doing well. Just think how great you’ll feel when you get there.”
“I won’t feel great. I’ll be too dead. Look how much further we have to go.”
“Don’t think about what’s ahead – just look down and concentrate on the next step. Putting one foot in front of the other. Just one step. Then, concentrate on the next one. Foot after foot, step after step, and before you know it, you’ll be there. I promise you’ll feel great.”

So I pouted, and then put one foot in front of the other, and I suppose I eventually made it to the pagoda. I’m not sure if I felt great or not – I was probably too busy feigning heatstroke or limping with intent. I don’t remember much beyond that one gleaming moment of paternal encouragement, magnified and polished over the years of recollection.

Cherished even more now that, years later, Dad’s campaign has borne such unexpected fruit, and I find myself enjoying my morning jogs, craving the satisfaction of physical effort. I would give anything to run with him now above Clearwater Bay, and thank him for his words which have helped me through all sorts of trials.

Step by step, day by day. That’s how we go on.

I miss you Dad.