Olympics

 Eleven years ago, I competed in the Neighborhood Winter Olympics.

The event? Father Daughter Skeleton.

The venue? Red Cloud Court.

The training? None. Obviously.

Helena, age ten, is living her best life. Pink snow pants blazing in the sunlight, teal gloves locked onto my shoulders; she had the fearless confidence of someone who still believed her dad was both strong and steerable. 

She was perched on my back like a tiny, giggling ski coach yelling absolutely NO instructions. Arms out, face first, we started our run down the hill at a speed that certainly required better supervision from the photographer.

It’s her laugh that I remember; not a polite chuckle. A full body, “This is the greatest day of my life” laugh. The kind that makes you forget that your face is currently functioning as a snowplow.

But here is the thing about moments like this. You do not remember the cold. You do not remember the ice in your collar. You do not even remember how long it took to regain circulation in your face.

You remember that laugh.

You remember that for one glorious downhill run, you were not worrying about your health, schedules or bills, or what needed fixing. You were just a dad with his girl, racing gravity and common sense.

Did we medal? No.

Did we survive? Barely.

Did Helena ask to do it again? Immediately.

But I am fairly certain I won something better.

No podium. No anthem. Just a dad, his girl, and a moment in time preserved with a photograph.

Still my proudest Olympic finish.