And so the racing season begins again. Each year for the past seven years I have been the odd-looking "gentleman" running behind a double stroller in and around town. The odyssey began in 2004 with a single-stroller race and a great deal of pain, but has continued each year after that, even as we added a second daughter and graduated to a double stroller. We gave away that old single stroller and so many times I look back and wish I was only pushing that sleek rig rather than what feels like pushing a parachute full of cinder block.
The past few years I have slacked off a bit on our race schedule. What used to be a two-season affair (Spring and Fall) winnowed to one and a half before finally dwindling to a grand total of two races last year. Mostly I resisted registering for races based on shaky financial footing during both seasons, and that is still the case. However, through the magic of credit cards and a desire to experience the kind of self-cleansing pain that only comes from pushing two girls through heavily-trafficked roadways, trying not to nip runners' heels or implode my own cardiac muscle in the process.
This weekend I was feeling ambitious and I registered for two races. The first was an evening 5K on Saturday, forgetting about the tight streets and gradual hills in South City. A few of those hills slowed us enough that both of the girls--at separate point during the race--said, "Ugh, I could go faster than this!" Though they were far from being correct in that assessment of the speed at that time, it sure felt like it could be true soon. Even still, we grunted and gutted our way to the finish in less-than-record time.
On Sunday we ran another 5K at high noon. This one started and finished on a high school track in my school district, traversing a concrete-slabbed subdivision nearby for a mile or so. There were some quirky hills in this one that caused our younger daughter to say, "Oh, we're not going very fast anymore...we cannot even see that man in the orange anymore." They were not satisfied that we were in second place at that point, apparently.
My payback came during the kids' fun run after our race, when they both had the opportunity to run laps of the track and prove their mettle against time and distance. Our older daughter, who runs like a springing impala, with stride lengths rivaling mine, chased a running juggler for two laps and then finished because no one else appeared to be running anymore. Moments after finishing she told me, "Hold on, Daddy, I'm going to run at least one more lap." I did not let her, but maybe only to waylay the inevitable time when she turns out to be faster than me.
Our younger daughter ran hard from the get-go, and petered out at 200 meters. Yes, the one who assured me she could run faster than the 6:15 pace I was pushing their stroller hit the wall halfway around the track. She clenched her belly with that unmistakable look of "I'm-gonna-hurl" and all I could think of was Will Ferrell's immortal Anchorman line, "Milk was a bad choice!" Right before they both ran, they guzzled a small carton of chocolate milk, despite my warnings about how this would affect them on the run. Oh well, live and learn.
No comments:
Post a Comment