Fatherhood, Failure and Freakin’ Old Age

Issue #12

My son Gabe and me at the start of the Mt. Gaoligong Ultra, Tengchong, March 20, 2026.

In March, I was buzzing with excitement about running the Mt. Gaoligong Ultra in Tengchong, a 104-miler along extreme and technical mountain terrain in the Yunnan Province of China. 

Alongside me was Gabriel, my 31-year-old son — our first time running together.

I’ve crewed Gabe on a number of ultras, preferring to support him from the sidelines, from where I knew I could better share my knowledge and experience after decades in this high-performance sport. 

Wasn’t that a father’s job, after all? To hand over polished pebbles of wisdom?

At the Tengchong start line, there were about 3,800 athletes, plus a Broadway-scale show with singers, dancers, strobe lights, drones, pyrotechnics. It was electric. 

The start line festivities, complete with a song written for the race and a show worthy of Phantom of the Opera.

At 8 p.m. the race kicked off. Gabe and I were smiling, flying over the first five miles. He’s super fit, his stride strong, effortlessly eating up the terrain. What a joy fatherhood is, I thought, beaming. The most exciting, consuming, brilliant thing I’ve ever done.

And then I fell. Literally, went splat on the rocks while crossing a small creek.

“Dad, are you okay?” Gabe rushed up to me, concerned.

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” I said, trying to brush off the stark realization that I’m getting freakin’ old. My balance isn’t the same as it was fifteen years ago. Hell, it’s not the same as it was last year! 

I picked myself up only to see that my Leki running pole was bent, sticking out at a forty-degree angle, which rendered it almost useless. I had about forty hours of running ahead. Great.

We made good progress through the night, albeit across incredibly difficult sections, areas in which you can't run or even walk. I had to crawl down crevices in between rocks, through narrow gullies, all super challenging especially in the middle of the night. 

But, then the hint of sunrise, offering a glorious reprieve from the fatigue. Your circadian rhythm kicks in, the warming rays suppress melatonin and release serotonin, boosting your energy and mood. Suddenly, we were smiling again.

Around 2 p.m., eighteen hours since our start, about thirty still to go, we arrived at checkpoint #6. 

“Dad, I’m just so tired,” Gabe said. “Really exhausted.”

Me too, son, me too. We grabbed some food, then a couple of sleep mats and napped for thirty minutes. 

The next section of the race was the hardest, summiting the highest point of the course. As we climbed, my heart sank. Up a near-vertical ascent, a familiar feeling returned: I was having trouble catching my breath. 

My lungs again, my Achilles heel. 

I managed to crest the top, where I tried all the usual tricks — mantras, take in the spectacular views, set small goals, slurp down noodles cooked in broth. Nothing worked. I was gasping for air when climbing, no matter how slow I went.

Around 8 p.m., twenty-four hours after our start, we arrived at an aid station, near which was an ambulance, serving as a medical checkpoint. I told Gabe I was going in.

My heart was racing. The medical team went through a battery of tests and before I knew it, an oxygen mask was strapped on my face. That’s when Gabe walked up to me, the look of panic frozen on his face.

I lifted the mask momentarily and told him to go ahead. I would follow, if possible. My lungs were my old foe. Nothing new, nothing to worry about.

“Okay, Dad,” he said, with a sigh. “I love you.”

Sadly, my race was over. After receiving oxygen for an hour, then spending the required period under observation, I missed the cutoff time. I DNF’d.

Back in my hotel room, close to midnight, Gabe called.

“Dad, how are you doing?”

“I’m okay, Gabe. But I’m done. Did you make the next cutoff?”

“Yeah, I did. But, I’m done, too.”

“What do you mean you’re done?”

“We’re not in this together anymore. I came here to run with you and to experience the whole thing together. And we did for a while, but now there’s no reason for me to go on anymore.”

I felt terrible, but it had to be Gabe’s decision, which is what I told him.

“Okay, Dad, get some sleep and I’ll probably see you soon.”

I woke up at around 5 a.m. No word from Gabe. A few hours later, he called.

“Gabe, where are you?”

“Dad, come on, man. I couldn’t throw it in. I just got to keep moving, right? That's what I’ve got to keep doing all the way to the end.” 

He finished in 45:51:51.

Gabe and our good friend Matt at the finish, 45:51:51.

He had found courage despite me, not because of me. 

It was a moment of utter clarity, when nothing else mattered. Yes, I had failed in my ultra mission, but Gabe had succeeded. He did something that I thought he was going to give up on. But, he didn’t. He figured out a way to go through a level of tiredness like no other, and to dig so deep that the aches in his limbs, the hunger and doubts eventually melted away. And he did all that on his own. 

I had just witnessed something precious — the passing of the torch, father to son. And at that moment, there was nowhere else in the world I wanted to be. 

I got to run alongside my boy for twenty-four hours, and what a glorious twenty-four hours we shared. I’ll take those moments in exchange for the DNF any day. Because as I get older, I know that my experiences are rationed from here on. How many more summers do I have? How many more times will I run under a full moon in Brazil? How many more lunches do I have with friends? 

This isn’t being maudlin — it’s the opposite. Everything is so precious now. Life is more joyous and so much more piquant that I want to stay active, curious and present for as long as possible. 

Hope to see you on the trail.

Cheers, 

David.