I watched and cheered yesterday as my eldest son had enormous success
as a runner. I can't run these days. I am in a season of healing, at best, a
season of limping at worst, while I deal with a painful injury to the cartilage
and tissue behind my right knee cap.
He, my eldest son, has not
been running much this Fall. He maybe runs once or twice a week with his
mother. Usually finds an excuse not to get out there on the roads and trails.
We don't argue about it much. He has school and soccer and more importantly, I
don't want to fight about something as joyful as running. If you don't want to
get out and train, don't. I want to get out and train, but this is not about my
running, or lack thereof.
He looked effortless and
smooth through until after the finish line. He was breathing hard, but his
stride never fell apart. Clearly, an Autumn as a midfielder making crosses and
square passes works for some cross country racing. He came to find me quickly after the race for the breakdown of how it went and what I thought. That a 14 year old will still give me a post race hug is about as good as parenting gets.
Sons want to share athletic
successes with their fathers. I wanted to do the same. Talk to my dad right
after. Or if he wasn't present, give him the long version, the play-by-play.
He's my hero. Running well
on, well, very little running.
I want to have headphones
in and do a track workout to this tune -- My Hero by the Foo Fighters.