March 23, 2015
My dearest Cliff,
You were taken from us today, far too soon. I don’t know what else to do but write.
“Us” is a large community of runners who love you because you are our family.
You are my family. I’ve lived in this city as a young adult with no “adult” family members and you are my family. Since 2010, I’ve spent as much time with you as I have with any of my friends, save for my husband. You’ve dedicated your time, energy and love to me; nurturing my running talent and more importantly, nurturing my soul.
You always remind me to enjoy the sport, the thing I choose to spend the short and long hours of my time away from my family doing. You believe in me as a runner. Your belief in me has become my belief in myself. And beyond running, more importantly, I always knew that you believed in me as a person and as a mother.
In 5 plus years, you’ve been with me through many seasons of my life. You were with me when I was a newlywed. You set me off on my honeymoon where I ran in wild Patagonia. You were with me for my biggest running challenge across an African country. I made it across that country on legs and an engine that you trained and with your words of encouragement and wise advice in my pocket. I remember the day that I told you that I wanted to run across The Gambia to help children. Most people said, “What?! Are you crazy?” You said, “I think you are a very lucky girl.”
You were with me as I became a coach for young teens. We spent many hours at high school track meets together. You were one of the first people with whom I shared the joyful news of my first pregnancy. You trained me as I grew my sweet firstborn in utero, all the way through January until there was too much snow on the ground and too much baby ‘round my belly. You fittingly met my sweet baby girl at the track and you’ve been with me while she’s grown into a gorgeous toddler. When she sees you, she runs into your arms and you pick her up.
You were with me as I came back from that pregnancy to set all new personal bests at every distance I ran. Under your hand-scrawled pen and paper training plan, I made the Nova Scotia Timex team destined for 10km Nationals in Toronto. But I wanted another baby more. Once again, a second time, you were one of the first people I shared joyful pregnancy news with. You helped me confidently hang up my sneakers, step away from the National team and focus on my family. I didn’t miss running during this second pregnancy but I missed you.
This season, you’ve been with me as I’ve grown into both a runner and a mother of two young children, reclaiming my runner’s body and runner’s mind. You were going to be with me as I ran my first marathon since becoming a mother. I know that you’ll still be there, out there on that 26.2 mile course with me.
There are so few people like you on earth. Who give of themselves so openly, generously and lovingly. Countless times, I’ve arrived at practice and been the only one there. You would always say, “Ah, I get to watch you run by yourself. This will be very enjoyable for me.” Then I am gifted with your individual attention.
The week before you left for Kenya I ran the best race of my life. You called me that night and I was so excited to tell you about it. It was also my baby’s first week of day care and I didn’t want to leave him in the late afternoon to train. So you informed me that you would meet me in the middle of the day. I said no, that you didn’t have to come to the track just for me. You said, “of course I’ll be there” and hung up. As always, you were there. All those hours together… for years, you’ve been there.
This was Wednesday. You left for Kenya on Friday. Kristen and I drove you home after track and I hugged you goodbye and wished you a safe and happy trip to Kenya. I didn’t know that would be our last conversation, our last hug. Your last words to me. We were talking about my kids. I want to hold onto everything you’ve ever said to me. You patted the trunk of my car twice as I drove away like you always did.
Every time we drive by the Commons, my smart daughter shouts, “The Commons! Mommy, can we go see Cliff?!” You’re the first person in her little life that she’s lost. When she asks this, I will see you there, at your post: messenger bag slung over your back, cell phone open to the timer in hand, happily putting our tribe through our work.
Most of the time when I arrive at run practice, when I walk towards you, you say, “How’s my girl? Always smiling.”
I will think of you every time I lace up my running shoes. I promise that I will keep smiling and I will honour you with every finish line I cross.
I love you Cliff,
Your girl, Erin
CBC News article about Cliff, 03/24/2015
One Response
I did not know Cliff but your wonderful words have left me in tears. From what I have read he was a lovely man and how lucky you both were to have each other even if it wasn’t for a long long time. Your fabulous memories will help you and your family through this difficult time. Take care and keep smiling.
MEV