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In October, espnWs weekly essay series will focus on heroes.I dont remember when I first started running with my dad. There were the early-morning wake-ups to go skiing, the bike rides with strudel as the proverbial carrot and voyages in our inflatable boat that was called?The Challenger.Now, in my late 30s, its the running that has stuck. At 70, my dads pace has slowed, but hes still as religious -- compulsive, as he puts it -- about his running schedule.Every other day, in sun, fog, snow or sleet, my dad pulls on his running outfit -- a mixed-media affair that weve tried to update over the years -- turns on the morning news and begins his physical therapy routine that lasts for about 40 minutes.Then the soft knee braces go on. Followed by the running shoes, sunscreen, and his sweat-stained baseball hat, where the peaks of perspiration have created a mountain range of salt summits across the front.Eventually -- sometimes under duress, or his annoyed shouting from the road -- Ill head outside, and well be off.As we settle into rhythm, the chatting begins. Small talk is not his thing. Sometimes its politics. Elizabeth Warren was at a local fundraiser and was as impressive in person as she seems on television, my father explained. Sometimes its neighborhood news. A tourist had a dog on the beach but got comeuppance when the cops were called, he would retell me.More often than not, its my career. In fact, the trajectory of my adult life can be traced in jogs with my father, and not always fun ones.Among the first was when I was in the throes of a job that had dragged me under. As we rounded the corner of my parents street, the sound of gravel and sand underfoot, I defended my well-paid job as a celebrity reporter.We get in a certain track, my dad told me, professionally. If this wasnt the track I wanted, Id better move on.The toughest jog I ever took with my dad was a few years later, when I had found work, but was struggling.It was August, and steamy. Rivulets of sweat were rolling down my temples, my breath was easy, despite the heat. I couldnt talk to my dad?about how often I was crying alone.I didnt want another nudge to move back East where, my dad said, there was more opportunity. And more educated people. And family. Instead, I just kept moving in the thick summer air. We were on the sand now, bathed in sweat, at low tide.It was time to sprint past the Yankees flag planted in a neighbors yard -- another local affront, but a good end-of-run finish line. We ran hard and high-fived and congratulated ourselves.Six months later, we ran together again. The Santa Monica air was cool and dry, and the sky had that mix of blue and gray that California gets on winter days. We jogged up the tree-lined side streets to my local park, where you could make a few laps or cut them short.He was thrilled with it -- the picnicking families, the planes landing nearby, the bright bougainvillea draping the route like curtains. As we panted along, I told him that things were finally getting better. I was on medication that made me feel like myself again. I was freelancing on top of my day job, and best of all, I had ideas and plans and energy.Over the years, I stopped running on my own as often; between injuries and, frankly, boredom, I lost the will to trot myself around the pretty blocks of Santa Monica, which had begun to feel monotonous. I still made sure to pack my running gear every time I visited my parents.There is, in that repetition, not just a comfort, as I had always seen it, but a profound drive. Jogging isnt my fathers only habit: there is piano -- thats nightly, for two hours before dinner, not including lessons and recitals. And writing, on the mornings hes not jogging, and newspaper-reading, every day, after writing or jogging.At worst, my dads routine is an infuriating rigidity that has overridden all kinds of other things -- earlier dinnertimes, for starters. At best, its pure dedication, a devotion to making time to breathe and think.For me, its been the subconscious push to keep going when its cold and rainy, when Id rather stay in bed, and when theres a wrong turn and no end in sight.Whether my dads running habit is a function of a strong work ethic or a fanatical compulsion doesnt really matter. In a literal sense, jogging with him for 30 minutes every other day has been the comforting habit I get to come home to, no matter what season it is.Tanoh Kpassagnon Jersey . 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