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.