One Step Forward

Listen up, because I am only going to say this once. I…well, I can hardly bring myself to say it.

I am a runner.

Typing that line was harder than running my first marathon. Despite having toed the line at 13 marathons, some untold number of half marathons, 10Ks and 5Ks, and I can’t even imagine how many training runs, I have never truly considered myself a runner. I have never experienced the “runner’s high.” Unless the runner’s high is that extremely delightful feeling you get when you somehow convince yourself that today’s run is not truly necessary.

Some of the other people I know who run say they run to be finished. I guess that’s true for me, too, but really I’d be fine if I had never started putting one foot in front of the other at such an accelerated pace.

So, at this point, you’re probably wondering why I don’t just hang up the running shoes. Why do I persist in this pursuit of futility? Chasing a finish line that is really nothing more than a starting line for the next one? I can answer that.

I am not a runner as much as I am a Dad.

I picked up running right around the time I added that nickname to my collection – Dad. I realized that I was getting older, less active, more roundish and generally out of shape. At the same time, I realized I had just signed up for life’s ultimate promise. Dads are supposed to be there when you need them. Dads are supposed to be that rock. Forever sturdy. Reliable. Immortal. Not necessarily wise. Not necessarily warm and welcoming. Not necessarily flexible. Although I hope and strive for all of the above. I seek above all else, predictability. To be that rock for Jackson.

Maybe my view of fatherhood is slanted in a certain direction because I lost my own father when I was 15. Maybe I just want to give Jackson the one thing my father could never give me.

So, I run for Jackson. And mostly, I run alone. I start races with friends or family, but I usually finish alone. In most cases, well behind my running buddy. Once in a while, a bit ahead. But consistently alone. It’s a solitary sport.

The other week, though, Jackson’s Taekwondo school decided they were going to invite all the families to run a local 5K. And Jackson was going to run his first race. I almost couldn’t contain my excitement. My days of running for Jackson – by myself – were about to end. A new era was beginning. From this point on, I would be running WITH Jackson.

I coached him up all week. “Don’t start out too fast. It’s been a while since you’ve run at all. Don’t worry about your time.”

I envisioned every step of the race. We were going to start out together. I would pace him the entire time. I wouldn’t let him sprint until we could see the finish line. We’d cross the line together, smiling, laughing and winded. And we’d make our way back to the car planning our next victory lap. In my mind’s eye, it was beautiful.

I really have to hand it to Jackson. He accepted all of my advice without rolling his eyes even once. He listened attentively to my learned pearls of wisdom. He let the dream live and thrive in my heart and mind for the entire week.

The evening of the race, we parked the car and strolled up to the packet pickup. A couple of last minute coaching tips as I pinned his number onto his shirt.

“Dad?” he said. “I’m going to run with my friends.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “They can run with us. It’ll be fun.”

“Um, Dad, I just want to run with my friends. No offense.” He only says “no offense” when he knows he’s offended you.

“I get it. I was a kid once,” I said. “You want to run with your friends, and I want you to. I want you to have fun.”

And there it was. I’m pretty sure I managed a smile after I said it, too.

“Listen, I’m going to run back to the car and throw these goody bags in there. Stay right here with your friends.”

It was a long jog back to the car. My legs felt heavy, and I hadn’t even crossed the starting line.

When I got back to the packet pick-up area, Jackson was holding court with his friends, joking, laughing and picking running buddies. I slipped in to let him know I was back.

“Dad, go talk to the adults. No offense.”

“Ok, ok. I’m going.”

I chatted with the other parents until it was time to line up for the race. When I joined the other runners, I was shooed to the back of the pack by a son who wanted to run on his own. Or at least run without me. He and his friends made their way to the front.

Slowly, the pack started to push forward, and we were on our way. Not quite like I imagined, but here I was, running my first 5K with Jackson – alone.

I weaved my way through the walkers and the few runners that I was actually faster than, and I kept looking ahead for Jackson. Around the half mile mark, I passed one of his taekwondo buddies, but Jackson was nowhere to be found. I pressed on.

At mile one, I decided that Jackson was not only going to run without me, he was going to beat me. Now, one thing you should know about me.  I’m not the competitive type. So, the idea of my 11-year-old son beating me didn’t bother me.

Another thing you should know about me. I’m not fast. So, even a short 5K affords me a lot of time to think. I thought about how far ahead Jackson probably was. I thought about how naive I had been to think he was actually going to choose to run with me over his friends. I thought about how quickly Jackson was growing up. I thought about how quickly time goes.

Except when you’re running.

It wasn’t long after the first mile that I came up on Jackson and a few of his friends.

“Hi, buddy,” I said as I passed.

Less than a quarter of a mile later, I heard a familiar voice. “Hi, Dad.”

“Hi,” I huffed.

“I said Bye, Dad.” He laughed as he and his friends sauntered past me effortlessly. Or at least I thought it was effortlessly. I had a lot of time to think. I thought about how I had left my iPod at home, because I thought I’d be talking to Jackson the entire time. I thought about how much slower time passes when you don’t have an iPod. I thought about how much younger Jackson’s legs were. I thought about how much older mine have gotten since I started running and exactly why I had started running in the first place.

We were just about to mile 2 when I caught up with Jackson and his friends again. They were walking. I wasn’t. I had another mile to go. Still plenty of time.

I thought about how long it would be before they passed me again. I thought about whether or not I should cross the finish line first if they didn’t. I thought about how slow time passes when you don’t have an iPod – again.

By the time I was halfway to the 3-mile mark, I realized Jackson and his friends had fallen off their pace. I was going to win. I still had some time left to think about exactly what winning meant. It meant quite a lot. Not in the sense of competition. But in the sense of my relationship with my son.

That little baby who forced me off the couch and onto the streets in the name of good health and a longer life was now running a race of his own. I had had my chance to share a few steps with him along the way, but I wasn’t going to be able to carry him all the way to the finish line. Not only could he do it on his own, he had to do it on his own. He had to learn how to do it without me. And I had to know he could.

I crossed the finish line and immediately turned around to wait for Jackson. I stood there and waited. I never saw him cross. Instead, I heard a voice from the sidewalk and a familiar laugh. I turned and saw Jackson with a Gatorade in his hand and a bunch of his buddies from taekwondo.

Somehow, even though I had my eyes glued to the finish line, he had managed to slip by. And guess what? He never saw me, either. I guess no matter how hard we try, no matter how hard we wish, things in life can just get by us – even some of the most important things. I just hope it all doesn’t slip by too quickly.

I want it to go really slow. Like a marathon. Without an iPod.

Jim Denny                 28:38

Jackson Denny        29:27

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