Today was my father’s funeral. I am short on words. It was the most beautiful service I could have ever imagined. He was buried. Friends and family visited from all over. Everyone told me I had a great father. Many people told me they loved reading my Web site. I honestly feel like I haven’t started writing yet.

I delivered the speech of my life today. Here is a transcript of my eulogy.

Today I’m wearing one of my father’s best neckties. I always loved his style. He taught me how to tie my ties, even though I’m not very good at it.

You may have also noticed I’m wearing my running shoes today. My father was an athlete. He defined “athlete.” He was filled with incredible energy, even when he was a shy bambino growing up in Naples, Italy. My grandmother must have put something in all that pasta she fed him.

In high school, my dad harnessed this energy into an impressive career in cross country and track. He blazed new trails, even with the infamous Phelps-flat-foot. He cemented his legacy at Lynchburg College in Virginia, where his name is still etched in gymnasium walls today. His best mile time: four minutes. (Although he always insisted it’s 4:02, because the four-minute run wasn’t in competition, and the stopwatches aren’t official, so you can’t really know for sure…)

Athletics were not just a pastime for my father; they were his life. He carried this passion into his adult life. He worked out at the gym every other day for the past two decades. He never missed a beat. He even bought me my gym membership on the day before my 18th birthday — he wanted to lock in the children’s discount rate while there was still time.

My dad was a health nut. He always wished he could quit his job and become a nutritionist or a personal trainer. It was never a realistic option, but he did his best to pretend. We would hear it every day, especially my poor mother. “Are you sure you want to eat that? I mean, you already had a salad for lunch, do you need that sandwich?” All this while he munched on his trademark PowerBar.

Dad’s dreams of passing on his love for sport translated very well to kids. Many of you know my father as Coach Rich, for RBV Cross Country or the Roadrunners. Well, if it isn’t obvious already, this stuff was his life. He went to every race. He lived for every start and for every finish. He cheered for the very last boys and girls to cross the finish line.

And he tirelessly pushed my brother to greatness. I’ll never forget the way Dad described the day he realized his son was a runner. He convinced David to run the Carlsbad 5000 when he was just six years old. My dad was totally pumped for this day. He told me he never expected to see David, flat feet and all, fly ahead of the pack and take first place in his first race. When my brother crossed the finish line, my father was screaming and laughing in elation. “That’s my son! That’s my son!”

My father’s athletic spirit is exactly what made his fight for life so meaningful. He was attacked by a vicious cancer almost two months ago, and he fought it head-on. He was fearful but extremely brave. On the last night before his surgery, my mom and my brother and my brother’s girlfriend went on one last run together. A hard run. And of course they struggled to keep up with him. My father had the stride of a gazelle. And that night when my family ran, the whole world ran behind him. The doctors later said they couldn’t believe what my father was accomplishing with the kind of disabling illness he had.

I’m wearing my running shoes today, and so is my dad. He will be buried in his best pair.

After his miraculous surgery, once-simple tasks were challenging. This recovery was the marathon of his life. Every bite of food, every step, every trip to the bathroom was a small victory. But he stuck with it. My mother fondly recalled the Filipino nurses who helped him through. After his first successful trip to bathroom, they exclaimed, “Mr. Pelps! Mr. Pelps! You pooped!” It was a momentous occasion.

It was successes like these that kept us all enduring. Since it was actually an infection that later took his life, I proudly call my father a “cancer survivor.” On just the second day after surgery, my dad was cracking jokes and entertaining visitors. He was so selfless that we had to remind him to relax and breathe. He was so selfless that his only request was for a blonde, Asian nurse. And I would tell him, “Dad, the likelihood of a nurse being Asian and blonde is so slim.”

As I’m sure you heard, my dad was a really funny guy. I always refused to admit it, but I get most of my stupid humor from him. I fondly remember how he would order spaghetti at a Mexican restaurant, or how he would try to pay for dinner with his gas card. It was his perennial gladiator costume at Halloween, and his hopeless flirtation with young waitresses. He always wanted to be 18 again. I remember being a little boy and hearing him crack lewd jokes in hushed Italian with his sisters, and I desperately wished I could understand it. Now I’m glad I didn’t. I have heard, “Boy, do we have stories!” more often than the stories themselves. And I’m not sure I want to know some of those stories, either. Dad loved to laugh, and he loved to make other people laugh.

Indeed my father had a great love for other people. His respect for his parents shone through his piercing, blue eyes. His love for them was like that of a young child, as if he had to re-pay some endless debt.

In his day-planner, my dad had marked the date his parents were to return from Italy: “Mom/Dad Home!” he wrote, with an underline and an exclamation point.

My dad would regularly visit my grandmother for lunch, always an excuse to bring her fresh flowers. He loved flowers. He loved to work in the garden. His yard was his life, for better or for worse. No one who knew him could ever forget how he watered his lawn. Nothing brought him more joy and more grief than that lawn. I remember being late to Christmas dinner at Aunt Patty’s house, and I would sit in the car while he wrestled with the hose in a last-minute panic. And if he wasn’t watering, he was raking. And if he wasn’t raking, he was sweeping. My father was compulsive about his home because he had pride in his home. And he earned his home.

I grew up in that home, the same house for 19 years. My father instilled in me the values and morality I carry with me today. We clashed — a lot. He always said I should be a lawyer because I was so argumentative. Nevertheless, his belief in fearless perseverance and unconditional kindness made me not just the man I am today, but my father’s son. He gave me the kind of man-to-man advice that no one else could. He helped me try to understand women, he helped me work on my car, he tried to show a genuine interest in all of my activities.

While he was recovering in the hospital, we had a lot of talks about dreams, lessons, and fears. My dad kept bringing up how surprised he was to see so many people call and visit. I said, “Dad, are you kidding me?” The level of support was no surprise to me. I explained to him what an amazing human being he was, how he touched the lives of everyone he met, how he was the life of every party and the centerpiece of the Phelps family. He thought about it, and in his soft, tired voice, he said, “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Something clicked inside, and he knew his presence on Earth was a gift.

My neighbors told me yesterday they laughed when they saw my parents on their daily walks with the dogs. They couldn’t believe their relationship had been so strong. His last words to my mother, his admiring wife of 25 years, who tirelessly took care of him when he was sick, were, “You’re my angel. Give me a kiss.”

In the moments before my father’s passing, I spent time alone with the Lord. I dropped to my knees, pleading with Him to open His pouch of miracles and use one on my father. I begged with every fiber of my being. “Free him of this disease!”

And when my father died, I could not understand why God did not answer my prayer. In that instant when he departed, my heart was filled with the memories and lessons of a lifetime of love.

Now that he’s passed, I feel guilty when I laugh. Why do I get to breathe this air and not he? But the only thing bigger than death is life, and he would want us to live. He would want us to laugh.

One woman I spoke to described my father as “a vibrant man.” My father was vibrant, a monument of a man, a fierce competitor and a team player. Young, handsome, six-feet, two-inches, and gentle… a man who respected his body and loved his family.

On the day he died, my father was alive. He died in the morning and not in darkness. And when he passed away, he had little tears in his eyes. It was his only way of saying, “Ciao.” And in the days that followed, I realized that my dire prayer had been answered. God had set him free. He had crossed the finish line.

I love you, Dad, forever. Thank you all for coming here to celebrate my father’s life.