“Hey, Mom,” my professor son said as we chatted long distance this afternoon. “It’s been thirty years since we did our first marathon.”
Kevin is kind to use the plural “we.” He did all the work; I went along for the ride. Actually, I was the ride since my son was only twelve. I drove him to downtown Chicago where thousands of people lined up along Clark and Dearborn Streets ready to head north. It was a spectacular September day. He stood in the street waiting for the starting gun, while I joined the spectators at the curb.
Once the hoard of runners passed, our plan was that I would jump in my car and, with the aid of a map of the route, drive to Mile Marker 6. I knew how long it would take Kevin to get there, so the challenge was to beat him and be standing at the curb again to cheer him on. Once he passed, I would run to the car and head to another marker. I must have done this four or five times, screaming “Go Kevin Go” when he’d come into view.
I hadn’t thought about the Chicago Marathon in ages until Kevin mentioned it today. Now I recall how exhilarating it was to be at the finish line when he crossed it. It was his first marathon, and he took second place in his age group.
“Fargo’s sponsoring a half-marathon this September,” Kevin said. “I’m thinking of running it. If you come, we can do it together.”
“I can’t run it, Kevin.”
“No, no. I mean you’ll pop up at different mile markers.” Then he added, “It’s strange. I’ll be older than you were when I ran that first one. You’re thirty years older too.”
Reality hits us all in the face from time to time. But I’ll be there if he runs it.
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