On summer vacation, we ran the OBX 5K. A great experience.
I am 49, and the last race I ran was in second grade, when the winner told my mom, “If no one else was in the race, she would have gotten second!”
The members of our family ran at different paces. Our 12 year old entered the race in the second wave, confident he could finish in less than 28 minutes. He finished third of all 14 and unders. Our thirteen year old had a goal just to finish. He rocked it. And our eight year old wanted to beat as many family members as possible – “at least two of you” – which meant boxing me off the sidewalk.
I ran with the 13 year old for 21 minutes. Then my husband, who was run-walking faster than us with the eight year old, couldn’t take it anymore. He raced to catch up with the 12 year old. I shifted to the little man.
“Mom, slow down.”
“Mom, you’re walking too fast.”
But as we turned into the Whalehead Club with the finish line in view, me on the verge of throwing up, my eight year old took off. Sweaty. Fast. All I could see was the big 25 on the back of his Jamal Charles jersey.
And what did I hear as we approached the finish line?
“Keep it up, kid.”
“You rock, little man!”
What about the 49 year old mom of three boys in 97% humidity running her first 5K?! The kid is cute, but he’s eight. Top time for his age group. Good knees.
Just asking…who needs the cheers? The little guy or his mom?