First and foremost, the marathon itself: the 130th running in Boston. This is a legendary race and world cultural touchstone, one that I’ve been around pretty much since I was born, seeing as my first trip (and airplane ride) out of my hometown was in April 1985, when I was just two months old and my parents took me to Massachusetts to cheer my dad on as he ran the marathon.

My father, Frank, has run the Boston Marathon 14 times, his best time being 02:48:15 in 1979. His first was 1978, with his last in 1999. And every year he ran it, we’d watch him, many-a-time at the finish line. In total, he’s run over 80 marathons in his day, with thousands of other road races sprinkled in, too. At age 84, he still runs often, usually shuffling along some silent trail in the backwoods of my native North Country of Upstate New York.

Heck, he even appeared in Runner’s World magazine one time. The image (pictured) is of Frank crossing the line at the 1978 Boston Marathon, just edging out the guy in the buffalo head, aka “The Cow Man,” who was a legend of the race of years. It was 42 degrees out, and yet my father went shirtless, with the act being a family tradition that remained for years, of which I would also partake during races (once at a frozen Thanksgiving Turkey Trot).

“I was coming around to the finish and I see this damn guy wearing a buffalo head, and I thought, ‘There is no damn way a guy in a buffalo head is going to beat me,’ so I ran as hard as I could and beat him at the line,” my father told me years ago over the phone while we talked about running and life in general.

Sitting in the comfy hotel bed, back up against the headboard, my eyes are focused on the televised race. And all of these deep feelings and emotions, these memories and moments, begin to flood my field-of-vision. Images of my old days of competitive running, something that was a huge part of my existence from the first day of seventh grade until I graduated college. Those chills running through me of heated races and hard-fought victories.

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To preface, even though I’ve run in hundreds of races (road and track) and was a Division 1 college athlete at the pinnacle of my career, I’ve never run a marathon (26.2 miles). Heck, I’ve never done a half marathon, but have done training runs nearing that distance of 13.1 miles. And yet, running is a part of my daily life and schedule. Crazily enough, I have a running streak entering its 11th year, where I’ve run every single day since Dec. 31, 2015, averaging around three miles per jog. And I couldn’t imagine it not in my life.

Beyond being raised in a running household, it’s something that’s a pillar of my heart and soul. And has been for decades now, wherever I may wander and ponder. Not to mention how much it has, happily, affected my body and mind. For those who know, there’s nothing like a run that hits that ideal rhythm of time and space, where your flesh and bones seem to align perfectly with the cosmic wavelength of the greater universe. Pure bliss and serenity.

But, it wasn’t always like that, at least in the very beginning. I remember wanting to play soccer when I entered middle school. My dad had other plans, ultimately pushing me into running. Although I’m forever indebted to him for doing that, as a kid it definitely created a lot of expectations and anxiety, especially when I started winning races right off the bat and quickly becoming the only middle schooler on the varsity team running with the seniors.

No matter, I loved all of those experiences. And I’m still in cahoots with some of those former teammates. Even with the stress of training and stepping up to the start line, the sweaty palms and fast-beating heart of competition and those mad dashes to the finish line, those moments really defined who I ultimately have become as an adult, whether it be simple discipline and goal-setting or merely this wildfire within to compete and give my all.

It hearkens back to that sacred quote from the late, great Steve Prefontaine, arguably the most famous runner in American history, a rebel of pure intent and talent, who said once, “To give anything less than your best is to sacrifice the gift.” I first heard that saying from my late running coach, Brian Power, when I was 12 years old and sitting in the lobby of the high school, listening to him explain our impending practice. That quote changed everything for me.

And here I sit, in this Athens hotel room, some 1,200 miles from that Canadian Border hometown of Rouses Point, New York. Age 41 with head held high. Dressed in my running clothes, I’ll soon lace up my shoes and start searching my All Trails app for a new trail to disappear down on my way back to my humble abode in Waynesville. It’s tracking down those surreal and serene spots by chance and happenstance for a run that conjures happiness.

Oh, and why am I in Athens? Well, I’m gathering more stories and quotes for this massive bluegrass book project I’ll be putting together for the better part of the next year for a major publisher. This book will be a culmination of 20 years of running around the country in this constant search for the people, places and things that make up the legend, lore and legacy of the “high, lonesome sound” that is bluegrass music. Stay tuned on that front for more.

In truth, my attitude and ethos in approaching and attacking this project is the same strategy that I learned and earned as a competitive runner all those years ago. And, for that? The gratitude remains. For everything in life that’s worthwhile is worth fighting for, this “thing” within you that puts you “in the zone” to achieve your dreams, come hell or high water.

Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.