Rewind two years ago. Same race, but much younger girls accompanied me this time. Peyton (6) Quincy (5) and Brooklyn (1). I was trying, though utterly exhausted 90% of the time, to keep my hat in the running arena, and signing up for a race was the best way for me to stay inspired and motivated. I noticed when I signed up that there was a “kid’s dash” that the little ones could participate in. This seemed like a fine idea. A way to include the kids in a positive way and introduce them to, well you know, the ‘joys of running.’ Everything began well enough. The whole family arrived to the race site early on an icy February morning and we spent the pre-race hour milling around the booths. By the time the adult race started my girls had used up all their good and fun positive attitude power pellets and were quite finished being out in the chilly grey morning. Brooklyn was weeping in the stroller and the older girls’ faces were beginning to take on that long, bored look. I arrived to the finish line in a bubble of joy and endorphins, feeling accomplished and satisfied in a way that only running as fast as you can with four thousand other runners for three miles can make you feel. It was time for the ‘kid’s dash.’ Both Quincy and Peyton looked unenthused as the race directors put the finishing touches on the 200 yard shoot for the kids to run in. As the children were taking their marks at the starting line, Peyton grabbed my hand and told me to do it with her. “This one is a special one just for kids… you can run it with Quin.” I told Peyton. Quincy, who was all fired up by this time, had taken her place in the front of the starting line and was waiting for the go sign. Peyton began pulling on my arms and started to cry. “I don’t WANT to do it,” she informed me. Her face had morphed into a hardened stubborn look that I knew fairly well at this point. It was almost time for the kids to be sent off. Quincy was kicking her pink sneakers in the dirt. “Go over there with your sister,” I urged again. “It’s about to start!” Peyton looked at me blankly and didn’t budge. In a moment of frustration and pretty significant irritation, I hissed, “Get over there!” Immediately I felt like the jerkiest parent on the planet. Though I was probably imagining it, I could feel the other parents’ disapproving and judgmental eyes on me. Before we could discuss this further, the kids were being sent off. Quincy ran like the wind, her fine blonde hair flying in tendrils behind her. “Go Quin!!!” John and I shouted in unison. As quickly as it started, all the kiddos had completed their run and were enveloped in their proud parents’ tech-shirted hugs. Quincy was all smiles and beams and we congratulated her on a job well-done. She was awarded a special ribbon while the race directors fawned over the tiny finishers. Peyton was devastated. She looked at Quincy’s finisher’s ribbon with envy. The race director noticed Peyton standing on the sidelines and out of pity offered her a ribbon, too. Peyton accepted with a glum nod. As we walked back to the car, Peyton stared shamefully at the ground. “Sometimes,” I said, “We can’t take back our choices…” Peyton continued to study the cracks in the concrete as we walked. “But, we can learn from them.” This advice was as much for Peyton as it was for me. As we drove away from the race scene, I wondered if I had crossed the line from “encouragement” to “forcefulness.” Was I one of those moms who forced her kids to participate in experiences that they themselves loved, but their kids didn’t? Images of stage moms, and phrases like ‘win’ and parents on the sidelines with victory in their eyes while their kid trudged through practices filled my mind… A little dramatic, I know, but I vowed on that morning that I wouldn’t force my children to participate in events that ‘I’ enjoyed, unless they expressed a clear desire to do so.
So it was with some degree of surprise that this winter, after I laced up my shoes to go for a morning run, Peyton informed me, “I want to do a race with you, Mom. The Valentine’s one.” As I went out the door she reconfirmed this by adding, “I really do.” The next time I went for my weekend morning run, Peyton asked if she could come too. I chortled at the idea. “I’m gonna run for a loooong time,” I told her as I patted her head. “I can do it,” she mentioned the next weekend when I came back all sweaty from the trail. Finally, I realized that she was truly interested. After a bit more negotiating on her part, we planned to run the following weekend. Peyton gushed about this all week. She also reminded me just about one million times. She picked the outfit she wanted to wear, and lined her running shoes up at the door. Part of me was proud and excited, but I think even a larger part of me (I’m somewhat ashamed to admit) was skeptical about taking her out. The entire purpose of my runs is a means of ‘escape.’ For years, it has been my method of clearing my mind, solving problems and contemplating issues, all the while gulping fresh air and letting my legs do all the work. A typical run for me lasts from 45 minutes to an hour. I don’t stop. I listen to loud music and let my mind wander. Some people have church, or meditation, or therapy… I have running, which has successfully served as all three, and I was more than a little reluctant to part with that time. Saturday morning arrived in a mist of fine freezing drizzle, which did absolutely nothing to deter Peyton. Her shoes and outfit were on before I had my first cup of coffee. “I’m ready, Mommy,” she told me. “It’s going to be very cold,” I warned her. “Um, I know,” she said, sounding more like a 15 year old than an 8 year old. Soon the two of us were off. Peyton wanted to hold my hand as we walked down the steep hill down to the road which leads to the trail. “Isn’t it a beautiful day for a run?” she asked as she tilted her head up at me to reveal a happy grin. I looked around at the wet pavement and grey sky and thought silently that I wouldn’t mind if it were a few degrees warmer. “Yup,” I agreed with my beaming daughter. When we got down to the road I told Peyton we’d get going, at which point she launched into a full out sprint. Her skinny legs worked in circles while her arms pumped side to side. By the time we made it to the trail she was breathing hard. “Take it easy,” I suggested. “You have to pace yourself if you want to make it a long distance.” This fell on deaf ears as she skipped beside me. “This is really fun,” she told me as her little legs chugged out in front of me. The trail was chilly and each piece of gravel was encased in its own shimmery frosted crust. Our breath puffed out in front of us in heavy steam clouds. We ran side by side for awhile, and every so often Peyton would pause to get her breath, always smiling and remarking on cool things she happened to notice on the trail. Before I knew it, we had made it to the mile mark. We looped around and started heading back. Though I knew she was tired, she kept smiling. When we were almost back to the turn-off that lead back to the road, she looked up to me and said, “I have to do something.” She then skip-ran as fast as she could up to a weeping willow tree whose branches dropped down onto the trail like green ribbons. Peyton jumped up to the branches and slapped them. “I had to give ‘em five,” she explained. I couldn’t help but laugh, and I certainly couldn’t help but thoroughly enjoy Peyton’s style of running. When we were stretching on the lawn she asked me how she did. “Very, very awesome,” I told her and completely meant it.
We ran a few more times together before the big day – mainly in the same vein of skipping, running, observing eagles and plants, walking and enjoying the morning. Not my typical training regime, but I must say… much, much more enjoyable.
Race day turned into a family affair. Quincy wanted to do it, Brooklyn wanted to do it, Mahmuh wanted to do it, and even John wanted to do it. Peyton wanted to run with me, John took Brooklyn in the jogger, and Mahmuh and Quincy planned to be a fast walking team. We took our place at the back of the pack and waited for the gun to go off. In a flurry of excitement the crowd began to shuffle-jog toward the starting line. Peyton took off and I had to hustle to catch up with her. It turns out she was determined to beat John. After she was certain she had put some distance between herself and John and the jogging stroller, she began to slow down into a comfy jogging pace. She kept it up for a mile, and then two… I kept waiting for her to tire, or walk or ask me when it would be over. But she didn’t. She told me she was having fun, and every so often she’d ask where I thought Daddy was. At about two and half miles she told me she had to do something and ran to slap a tree with dangling branches. She then skipped back to me with a smile. These are the things she picked up from “training.” The finish line approached before we knew it. Spectators were yelling encouragement and Peyton finished strong, in a full out kid sprint.
The pride I felt was immeasurable. Not so much because I got Peyton to run (although let’s face it, that was pretty neat and I do take a little credit there) but that she and I enjoyed that moment together… And, that I had the best time ever, running like a kid.
