C.: Well, d.c. is busy with his class, but I’m all caught up. I’m going to continue reading d.c. scot’s BEYOND THE THIRTEENTH MILE: THE IRONMAN CHRONICLES. I’m on chapter twelve.
CHAPTER 12: TINY SOLDIERS
1700: Run course; mile three:
I feel better now, but I’m not ready to run yet. This group seems to be content to walk the whole run course. They believe that they will still finish the race in under 17 hours. At least I’m a mature person. I have the training and mental toughness to finish this race (I hope), unlike a young child.
I remember Seth’s first competitive race. He didn’t understand what it was all about until he started to run. That probably helped him get interested in running as a hobby and a sport. He was so proud of himself after that race. He looked like a tiny soldier lining up for that first race, though…
***
They lined up like so many tiny soldiers, miniature Iron Men and Iron Women in the making, all awaiting the starting gun. All, save four or five, were five-year-olds. The other four or five were only four, but there was no division for them, due to a lack of interest (mainly from the parents). They were all set to run their very first race of their young lives, which was to be a distance of one kilometer. Many parents, apparently, felt that their children weren’t capable of finishing the sixty-two one-hundredths of a mile run.
Actually, the term “race" is a bit of a stretch because there were no awards and, of course, no losers; only winners, youngsters who finished the course. My focus on this particular day was on one of the four-year-olds, Nicole’s son, Seth.
In his four-year-old mind, Seth had a very limited concept of what running a race was all about (as, I'm sure, most four and five-year-olds do.) I had taken him on a few "training runs" around the block on which Nicole's house was located. The block was, conveniently, exactly one kilometer in circumference. Not being familiar with the concept behind training, Seth would invariably stop for a rest break about halfway through the “run.”
Now, as he lined up for the run, he finally understood. He was going to race—like I did. Turning to Nicole, he said, "I'll do it myself," as he motioned for me to go back and stand with his mom.
Six months before this race, his actions wouldn’t have surprised me at all. Seth saw me as a threat to his exclusive relationship with his mother—and rightly so. He made no attempt to hide his dissatisfaction with our relationship at first. That began with our first meeting. He slammed the door in my face and informed me that his mom wasn’t home when I came to pick her up for our date. With time, though, Seth began to, at least, see me as a suitable playmate. He also saw me as someone with whom to run, and Seth loves to run.
The gun sounded, and all the five-year-olds sprinted for the first turn. Seth, being a little overexcited, "overran his legs," to use a runner's term. As a result of his running too fast too soon, he took a pretty bad spill, leaving him at the back of the pack.
I was following at a safe distance to keep an eye on him just in case something of this sort happened. As I ran upon him, I promptly set him back on his feet before his brain had time to register what had just happened. Still a little uncertain as to whether to continue or crawl up in my arms, Seth looked at me, then at the volunteers, two women who had watched the whole episode and were more than a little concerned about him. Then, suppressing a scream, Seth bravely stated, ''It happens sometimes when you race," parroting me as he passed the two kind-hearted volunteers, taking a cup of water from each of them.
With one cup, Seth quenched his thirst and, with the other, he poured water over his scraped knees to wash out the gravel and curtail the bleeding. Then, incredibly, he gathered his wind and ran past all save a few of the five-year-olds, children he wasn't even supposed to be competing against.
I'm not sure how the other four-year-olds fared, but Seth finished in just under ten minutes, skinned knees and all. (This was the fastest time that I thought he could run under ideal circumstances.) Many of the 12-year-olds at the park that day disdained doing the one and two-kilometer runs. Most opted, instead, to attempt the one hundred- and four-hundred-meter distances, and many of them walked those distances. Seth and the other four-year-olds who chose to compete in the longer distance race had reason to be proud. Seth definitely was.
"I won!" proclaimed an ecstatic Seth as one of the volunteers slipped his finisher's medallion around his neck.
"Yes," I agreed, “you sure did, because you finished!"
"I won!" Seth repeated, holding his medallion up for his mother to hold.
At that moment, I'm not sure which of the three of us was the proudest—Seth, Nicole, or me.
Comments