First Race

My 4-year-old ran his first race a week ago back in my hometown area of Northern WI/Upper MI. While I never doubted his ability to run 2 miles despite a lack of substantial training (his longest run was 1.25 miles), I did underestimate the power of the thing you get at the end of the race.

Temperatures are a little chilly there in comparison with Virginia. And even though they said the race time temperature was 72 degrees, it didn’t feel like my 72 degrees. The wind whipped across the hilly terrain as we milled around waiting the start time. I was cold. Bump bounced with excitement. He couldn’t wait.

The race was a 10 K with a 2 mile walk. They started us all together with “chips” wrapped around our ankles instead of on our shoes. There were no rules about iPods or strollers (there was even a stroller division). It had that real hometowny feel to it. The gun went off and so did we.

Bump and I are not good running partners. My husband has the ability to coax him along with a little more confidence and vigor. I did my best, but the kid did not want to run. Before we had gone a quarter mile, he said, “Mommy, is that the finish line up there.” I tried to equate our distance traveled to its equivalent at the running track where he has logged his most miles. He didn’t hear me and kept begging to walk. I knew he wasn’t really out of breath because we weren’t going very fast at all. But I entertained him and allowed him a couple of “1 minute walk breaks.”

We got to the first water stop at about 3/4 miles. His first water stop ever! At first he said he didn’t want water, and then he tried to stand there with it for as long as he could. Finally I took it from him and sent him back out.

He did very well on the next stretch with the encouragement of a couple of women walkers. There were a lot of twists and turns in the pot-holed road and this provided some interest and the continued question of whether the finish was around the next corner.

Why they had a water stop at 1.5 miles, I don’t know. We took another sip and went to kick it on home. He stayed strong and told me he didn’t want to walk, he just wanted to finish and get his trophy. I told him that I didn’t think he’d get a trophy. Big mistake.

We were about two blocks from the finish line when we had this little exchange. At that very moment, he howled in agony over the lack of trophyness in this race and stopped. He said that he didn’t want to finish. Well, not an option. So I dragged him those last two blocks, screaming and crying. I tried to pump him up with other things – waving to Grandma, a donut from a nearby bakery, gatorade at the finish line – all to no avail. He stumbled along behind me and I pulled him across. Our time? 31:31.

The crying did not stop there. As my parents and his brother joined us, he continued to howl. We did go to the bakery where I got nothing but attitude until I placed my order and he declared, “The chocolate donut is mine.”

I was still proud of him for as much as he ran. But I know he can do better. Maybe next time, he’ll even win a trophy.

Note: After this episode, his great-grandmother gave him a golfing trophy that had belonged to his great-grandfather. Now he thinks he’s something. The first day he carried it around the house all day and threatened to sleep with it. I think this will be a story for the ages to tell his track coach and other later on – maybe even Runners World or ESPN…