On Wednesday evening, my dad and I stood next to each other in the starting block of the Sommernachtslauf in Munich.
A race. A real race. It’s been a while for both of us.
Shoulders touched every now and then as the crowd slowly moved forward. Music was blasting from the speakers, someone enthusiastic on a microphone tried to turn an ordinary Wednesday evening into the Olympic Games, and hundreds of watches beeped when crossing the timing mat under the start arch.
So did ours, and off we went.
Back at the Oly
The race took place in my beloved Olympic Park in Munich, where most of my training and racing happened for many years.
I lived in Munich for twenty-five years before moving to Garmisch-Partenkirchen one and a half years ago. For a large part of that time, we lived only 400 meters away from the Olympic Park, aka the Oly.
Even for my Western States preparation I did around ninety percent of my workouts there, including those that asked for vert. The Olyberg (Olympic “mountain”) rises an almost intimidating fifty meters above the surrounding area, after all. Run up and down often enough and you can turn it into a real mountain. That’s what I did and then some.
I have no idea how many thousands of kilometers I covered in this park. Easy morning runs before work. Intervals in the dark. Long runs that circled the same paths again and again. Marathon workouts, recovery jogs, tempo runs, private races during the pandemic and plenty of sessions where I don’t even remember what I was training for.
The Oly gave me everything I needed. Asphalt and mud, winding paths and long straights. No cars, no traffic lights and two public restrooms, which honestly is one of the greatest and most crucial features any running area can offer.
Running in the same place almost every day might sound limiting but I found it relieving. One less decision to make. I stepped outside and the run had already begun before I even realized it.
The park also became the setting for more races than I can remember. Ten kilometers on New Year’s Eve (for years I was obsessed with improving my 10k PB in the most freezing part of my off-season). The Winterlaufserie, a yearly winter running cup featuring 3 races from 10k to 20k. The Munich Marathon and Half Marathon, both finishing inside the Olympic Stadium. And small local events where I found myself caring much more than I had planned. Just like the Sommernachtslauf.
Returning on Wednesday felt warm and familiar. I knew every turn of the course. I knew every heartbreaking hill, where the paths narrowed, which corners were sharper than they looked from the distance, even where the tree roots have cracked the asphalt, creating tripping hazards.
At the same time, I was visiting a former life. A good one.
Like Son, Like Father
The reason I had entered the race was standing next to me.
My dad, Gunther, came to running through me. At least that is the version of the story we both love to share.
During his military career he had always been active and sporty, but he started running seriously after I told him about my first marathon. I suggested that he could run one as well. For no obvious reason, he believed me.
Only one year later, we lined up together at the Hamburg Marathon. His goal was to finish his first marathon in under four hours. I ran beside him as his pacer, checking splits and recalculating the remaining time until the numbers became our friends and everything fell into place. With a little help from an impressive final sprint.
We finished in 3:58:58.
Then we held each other and cried. Probably one of the most intense family moments I remember.
I have written more fully about our relationship in an older Das Z Letter called Like Son, Like Father which later became an article for German running magazine Laufzeit.
My parents got divorced when I was six years old. My brother and I lived with our mother, while seeing my dad was reduced to every second weekend and a few holiday trips.
He was always caring and very supportive. Yet for a long time, we lacked a proper connection. We didn’t have something that belonged only to us.
Then running gave us that.
It allowed us to spend hours beside each other and always had a conversation topic that inspired both of us. We travelled to races, discussed training and running shoe trends, and stood together at start lines in Hamburg, Boston and the Allgäu Panorama Marathon in the area where Gunther was born and where I spent much of my childhood.
All these shared races, but the Allgäu Panorama Marathon in particular, returned pieces of something I had lost when I was six.
The distance between a father and his son is difficult to measure. Shared kilometers turned out to be helpful and healing for our relationship.
Over the past few years, however, we had not raced together very often. My running became more complicated. His running continued. While I spent more than a year negotiating with my knee and regularly announcing the end of the world AND my running career over a one-out-of-ten irritation, Gunther simply kept going.
He is seventy-five now. I think. Could be seventy-six as well. Either way, he is still running, still super fit on the bike and still swimming twice as fast as me. And he is still excited when he pins a bib number to his shirt like Wednesday night for the Sommernachtslauf.
Nothing was at stake. This is true of nearly every race I run. The evening still mattered.
The Second Lap
The course consisted of two 5k laps. We started easy, chatting along and settled into the pace of a relaxed evening run. There was no ambitious target. After the first lap, however, Gunther increased the pace.
At first, I thought he just wanted to pass a few runners before settling back into his rhythm. He did not settle back, but he kept pushing. I looked at the watch, then at him, then back at the watch. The numbers were close enough to become interesting and we both knew it.
And just like that, an unplanned goal entered the race: Ten kilometers in under one hour.
I was immediately in full-on pacer mode. Current time. Remaining distance. Pace drop on the climbs. Optimal line at the corners. The same feelings I had while pacing his first marathon in Hamburg. A wild mix of attentiveness, dedication to the cause, and kindness. It seems this is how I express affection.
“Yes,” I told him. “This can work out.”
Gunther was working hard now. I could hear it in his breathing and see it in the way his shoulders moved, but he never asked to slow down, he never fell back.
My motivational talk was on point:
“Just a few more seconds here... Last hill… Hold the pace…. Stay with me… We can do it…”
The finish came into view while the time started to feel like chewing gum. Every second stretches out eternally, while the numbers on the clock are somehow still changing much too quickly.
Then Gunther found another gear that he had hidden from me for most of the race. We crossed the line, I stopped my watch and looked down.
59:59.
Exactly one second below the goal we never planned to have. What a thrill.
Not impressed? Well, Gunther won the M75 age group, as he obviously should. We’ll talk again when YOU’re 75, ok?
My dad remains the runner I admire most.
Run Till Death
When I imagine myself at his age, I do not care much about the times I will be capable of running. What I want is his desire.
I want to remain curious about what my body can still do. Pin on a bib number and feel the tension in the starting block. I want sport, motion and life to remain inseparably connected.
If I am still as fit as my dad at seventy-five, still eager to train and still willing to sprint towards an entirely arbitrary finish time, I will have made some good decisions along the way.
Gunther is the personification of Run Till Death.
The phrase is often misunderstood as something dark or reckless. For me, it has always described a commitment to life. Keep moving for as long as the body allows it. Stay interested. Do not withdraw prematurely from the things that make you feel alive.
That’s what the Sommernachtslauf was about. That’s what racing is about.
On Wednesday evening, it was my dad and me.
59:59.
And I love it.
Everything Not Running
Okay, let’s talk about total failure. In our beautiful apartment in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, we have a balcony. A really big balcony. So big that we split it fifty-fifty with Toto and Harry (and still do even after they’re gone, their cat net is still intact).
But even Lisa’s and my 50% of the balcony was big enough to set up a raised bed and a few large planters to start a little vegetable garden.
No sooner said than done… and yet we f*cked it up. Except for three rampant tomato plants (which we got as ready-to-plant seedlings), absolutely everything — and I mean absolutely everything — we planted died. Or didn’t even grow in the first place. And that’s really sad.
In my defense (or to my shame), I have to admit that I contributed very little to the success of the gardening project. Aside from watering them half-heartedly every now and then, I wasn’t involved in the planning, the selection of vegetables, or anything else related to our home garden. But I don’t want that to sound like I’m shifting the blame and responsibility off Lisa’s shoulders. It just wasn’t meant to be a success.
I’m afraid the so-called “green thumb” isn’t just a myth. It’s a reality. You either have it, or you don’t. But even against all odds, we’re not giving up hope. The next growing season is sure to come.
On Repeat
Afraid The Boss will die one day? Don’t worry, we still got Brian Fallon.
Brian Fallon knows how to make nostalgia feel warm and still a bit painful at the same time. Better Before from his upcoming album “Not Bad For New Jersey” really hit a nerve. Going back to the Oly with my dad made me miss a former life without actually wanting it back. I only wanted to step inside it for one evening and see what was still there.
Love this, Chris. I got to share running with my dad late in his life, too. He was too sick for most of that time for us to actually run together, but we bonded over stories from his glory years as I was finding my footing in the sport. And everyone should have some version of "the Oly." A place where you can put in steady, quiet work without too much thinking. For me, it's a small park with a few paths, a perfect one mile around. Lace up and go.
That’s so rad you get to run with your dad! Love that for you and him 👊🏻🙌🏻