Of all the fathers at Lebanon's Colburn Park on Sunday, I wondered how many of them were feeling lost like me.

Everybody seemed happy. It was a happy event, after all.

The 4-mile Father's Day extravaganza known as “Skip's Run” has long been one of my favorites on the racing calendar. There's usually warm June weather, live music, a great course along the rail trail and a Salt hill-catered barbecue at the finish. Beer might make it better, but only a little bit.

This year was different for me, however, as I'm sure it was for a number of other new fathers in the crowd of 384 runners. My son, Sam, was born nine weeks ago. He is a healthy, mostly happy “little” guy (birth weight: 9 lbs. 2 oz.) whom I've had a lot of fun getting to know. We’ve gone on walks together, read great books, begun an introductory course on Tom Waits (the early years; he's not ready for Bone Machine yet) and experimented with beginner Latin dance moves.

What we have not done is a lot. Which is another way of saying that I'm still very much figuring out what kind of dad I'm going to be. Surveying downtown Lebanon on Sunday, you could see snapshots of a lot of different types. There was the dad cheering on his toddler daughter as she splashed in the fountain. One dad nodded purposefully to everything his grade-school-aged son was telling him. Another dad walked silently while mom pushed the stroller. One guy, maybe in his mid-40s, sat on the grass with his three daughters, soaking it all in and not the least bit eager to go warm up for the run.

I think I struck a pretty good balance and, while strolling among experts, felt as if I held my own. But it was all a masquerade. Little did anyone know that I'm the dad who, when out of reach of a burp cloth, does not hesitate to wipe his son's puky face with a stuffed elephant. I cram tortilla chips into my mouth, above my son, who’s strapped to my chest, and brush the crumbs out of the kid’s hair while trying not to drip salsa on his head. A pacifier falls on the floor? Five-second rule.

Yes, indeed, I am far from a model father. I figured if I was searching for a picture of the “perfect” dad, it might be appropriate to look at the event's namesake, Louis “Skip” Matthews.

Skip died in 2003, and he died young. Brain cancer took his life at age 52. (The race proceeds go to cancer research.) And while I'm sure he struggled as a parent, he seems to have been one of the most fun dads ever.

“He was probably one of the funniest people I've ever met,” his widow, Lisa Matthews, told me a few weeks ago. “He had an amazing sense of humor.”

Not dry, she said, more clownish and goofy. He did a rap dance down the aisle of the First Congregational Church in Lebanon to promote a fundraising drive. He coached youth sports, and began practices by leading the players in the hokey-pokey. Maybe it's no coincidence that he knew comedian Robin Williams when both of them attended Claremont Men's College in California, though neither man graduated.

Eventually, Skip earned his degree, but his was not the familiar life trajectory of high school-college-career. He jumped among several jobs after Claremont Men's College, eventually ending up at the Hanover Inn, where he met Lisa. While there, he matriculated at Dartmouth College and graduated, cum laude, at age 36. He was the father of a 2-year-old daughter at the time.

A constant in his life was sports. A gifted natural athlete, he played linebacker on Hanover High's co-champion football team in 1968. Baseball was probably his first love, Lisa said. Surprisingly, he was not a big fan of distance running.

“Sometimes, it seemed like more of a chore for him,” Lisa said. “But he did it. I never got the feeling that he loved running the way some people love running. But he challenged himself.”

He ran the Covered Bridges half-marathon in Woodstock, and once even ran a full marathon on Cape Cod. I asked Lisa what his time was, but she couldn't remember. Four hours and change. But that wasn't the point.

“He was never about winning or being the best,” she said. “It was about enjoying yourself and being the best you can be.”

What a great attitude, I thought. But I couldn't shake my competitive streak. I had to set a goal for Skip's Run. Last time I ran just over 33 minutes. I wanted to get under an eight-minute mile, which meant 32 minutes.

When it comes to fatherhood, I can think of just one way in which I might be considered more than competent. And that is bedtime.

After Sam's bath, when he's wrapped up in a towel, I like to take a slow walk up the stairs. As I hit the first step, a low power-chord chug on an electric guitar begins in my head. Da-dun-Da-dun-dun. It grows louder, then louder still as we hit the top steps.

I diaper him and carry him in the crook of my right arm, his head on my bicep. Then, as he sits at about a 30-degree angle, I start rocking back and forth while breaking into a Pat Boone version of Metallica's Enter Sandman.

Say your prayers little one

To include everyone.

The song calms him. Then my wife, Val, feeds him. After that, I step in to read him a book. Finally, it's lights out.

Lately, it's worked like a charm. Sam has been sleeping seven hours straight most nights. As with almost everything, it's a tag team effort, but one in which I feel that I make a real contribution.

A musical soundtrack for some activities is a must, at least for me, a child of the '80s who obsessed over mix tapes. Bath time has songs. Playtime is another big one. Bedtime is a given. Sometimes the songs are pop lyrics, but often they're just made up.

The irony is that, in scrolling through the playlist I'd created for Skip's Run, I realized I wouldn’t want Sam listening to much of it.

Hmmmm… N.W.A.? Nope. Tech N9ne? Forget about it. Marilyn Manson? I don't want to give him nightmares.

Whatever. I needed some extra oomph for this race. Sunday was hot, and I was not about to embarrass myself by walking.

So, the soundtrack stayed as it was, and after a surprisingly quick starting gun, I was off. I expected the sun to fade behind the trees when we hit the rail trail, but no. If I wanted to run in the trees, maybe. But it was blistering at the center of the trail.

I didn't even pay attention to the people at the mile markers who were yelling out the time. I didn't want to know. My legs felt 5 pounds heavier and my feet felt as though they were stepping out of beach sand.

There's a moment in every race when you realize you are close to the end, but not nearly close enough to rely on a final boost of adrenaline to finish. That moment happened after I hit mile three, in front of the home of a very nice family who were cheering on the runners.

I turned onto the rail trail and the end seemed another 4 miles away. I kept going. Then we hit the striped barricade. I kept going after that, one foot in front of the other.

As I was about to hit pavement by the CCBA, there was a line of grade-school aged children extending their hands for high fives. I couldn't help myself.

“Kids rule!” I yelled, probably a little too enthusiastically, as I slapped their hands. Their mothers stood behind them. I hope I didn't frighten them.

There was no way I was walking after that. I knew that Val and Sam would be watching. And though I didn't see them, I knew they were near the finish line.

As I rounded the corner to the final straightaway, I saw the clock. It was just over 31 minutes. I was going to beat my time. Then -- and I swear this is true -- the next song on the iPod began with low guitar power-chords chugging. Da-dun-Da-dun-dun.

Sam saw his daddy finish strong.

Chris Fleisher can be reached at 603-727-3229 or cfleisher@vnews.com.