Racing Boy

The Boy ran his first half K race this past weekend. That's just a little more than a third of a mile. He's run a couple other kids' races before when they've been after the 5Ks my husband ran, but those were just a 100 yards or so. And this also was the first race that was just his. The husband didn't run in the 5K; they went specifically for The Boy to run. (The Lad and I had to go to swimming lessons.)

The race was for 3- to 7-year-olds, putting The Boy at the low end in a field of about 15 kids. He finished in 3:37 -- that's a little more than a 10-minute mile pace. He was fifth or sixth, the husband said, and no one his age beat him.

I'm not sure I can run a 10-minute mile. To say I'm not athletic is an understatement. But I'm so proud of The Boy and so glad he enjoys sports as much as his daddy. (Plus, the runners I know are good people, and running was a sport in high school that seemed to attract good, geeky kids.)

Michelle asked if we were trying to create the Tiger Woods of running, teasing. We're not. We're just around a lot of races. The husband through the cooler season runs a couple races each month and runs multiple times each week, taking the boys in the jogging stroller when he can. The Boy wants to be like his daddy and will copy his stretches and ask to wear the iPod. Wanting to race was the next logical step. We've been very careful about leaving it up to him. With this last race, we asked if he wanted to do it instead of swim class, just one Saturday. He hemmed and hawed and wanted to swim. OK, we said. No! no no no no! I want to race. Back and forth, The Boy wavered.

On race day though, he was sure. He picked out his running clothes carefully. ("How 'bout the Reds shirt, Momma? 'Cause you run fast in baseball!") The husband said he was all business before the race, making sure to stretch and refusing to play on the bounce houses. It was the longest distance he's ever run, and the husband, who ran next to him, asked several times if The Boy wanted to stop. His only answer was The Boy's heavy breathing as he ran harder. Every time someone cheered from the side of the race course, The Boy sprinted faster.

If you guys could have seen his face when he came home .... he was so proud of himself.

And, though he definitely is his father's child, there's a little bit of me in there, too: Telling me about the race that night at bedtime, whispering in the dark, all The Boy wanted to talk about was how he didn't beat the big boy from his school and he'd have to be faster next time.