My First Born Is A Runner

My first born son started running as a baby, well, actually, tagging along with his running father. I’d put him in the stroller with a sandwich bag full of Goldfish. As he munched, he pointed. His first spoken word was “Mooooon” while I-Spying the silver sliver in the sky.

Once out of the stroller, his legs churned. Walking was not an option.  On a Daddy and Me Day, we ventured to Travel Town Museum in Griffith Park. There’s an assortment of vintage trains to climb on as well as a miniature train ride. Instead of climbing, my son raced from one train to another then back to his starting point. He had me time him.  He insisted on doing it again….and again…and again, frustrated when the next time wasn’t faster. 

Back home, I’d raise my hand to signal ready, then drop it, GO. From the top of the street he’d dash while I timed him. He’d do it again…and again…and again.

One morning, still in pajamas, he asked to come along for my run. I told him I’d wait at the top of the street. If he wasn’t there in five minutes, I’d keep going. 

Sure enough, his tiny figure emerged from the front porch, hit the sidewalk, and zoomed up to me, eyes bright, face smiling. We ran together.

One time he didn’t make that five minute deadline, and I took off in the morning mist. Soon I heard footfall crescendoing behind me. My beaming son zipped right by me waving. As I ran behind him, I noticed his legs were long and strong. The time had arrived. Henceforth, I was the one to catch up to him.

He entered youth track in sixth grade. His preferred event was the 800 meter or half mile. It’s the most difficult event because it’s a cross between a dash and a paced run. He sometimes finished first, more typically second or third, but always standing on that medals podium. 

The difference between his finish and first was five to ten seconds. To bridge that gap would require serious training, and I wasn’t sure if he had it in him.

Frequently, he skipped practice. I didn’t make a fuss about it. I knew he was overbooked. He also played club soccer. Practice was every night and on some nights there were two practices.

In the summer of his eighth grade year, the high school varsity coach invited him to join the team for training up in Mammoth. With no hesitation, he said yes. So while families idly vacationed at this luxury destination, he toiled. There was speed training, distance training, mechanics training and muscle training. Twice a day. At 8,000 feet elevation. 

I observed as a volunteer. My doubts vanished. My son had found his tribe.

That autumn, he got shin splints. It’s a common injury. It cost him half the cross country season. A return bout cost him part of the spring season. 

He was unfazed. 

The 800 is a two lap race. Like a school of fish, the boys shimmer around the first lap. Preening over, at the second lap, the pace accelerates and three or four hang together up front while the others fade back. At the last turn to the finish line, the crowd screams. It’s gladiatorial, eyes pleading, form failing, boys flail towards the finish.

This one race the pack didn’t break up. 10 or 12 runners rounded the final turn with my son stuck in the middle. All of a sudden, like a human cannonball, he burst through the pack while the others gasped to catch up. He crossed the finish line in spectacular fashion and won. 

He ranked the sixth fastest half miler in the country. Interviewers pulled him aside. The lean towhead offered insightful commentary.

Now he’s a junior and college recruiters hover. At a national invitation track meet, he competed in the mile, a prestigious race. He finished next to last; with a time of 4:21, nine seconds from first place.

I saw him through the fence as I headed towards my car. He was on the ground pulling on his sweats; his coach stood over him. They talked. It was 9pm. Late. His other teammates had long since gone home. 

“Hey, good job!” I shouted with a thumb’s up.

Runners say that to each other. It’s like Aloha or Shalom.

The next day I asked him about the race. He shared that he was disappointed, that he could have done better.

I leave the expertise to his coaches. It’s the life lessons where I speak up. Two things: Step up to that starting line with gratitude. Every race is a privilege and a dance with destiny. Second, you are loved before the race begins. Remember that sequence. It’s critical.