I went for a run with my son today. I couldn’t tell you how long it’s been.
I started with a bold statement, “I’m going to go get our teenagers into shape.”
Then I listened to myself, how ridiculous and untrue it was and fast-corrected, “No, I’m not. They’re going to get me in shape.”
Audrey stayed behind, but Matthew and I go.
I make light of myself and say something of a “pace” and realize I no longer have gears or scales of such—just to keep going. He asks me if this is my “fast” pace and I answer honest again, “I’m not sure I have one of those any more.”
Half-mile in, my body starts to itch as I break into sweat under layers of clothes. It’s been a bit since it’s been pushed to such. Legs are tight early, but with time and distance, they settle in and loosen as they’ve always done and my breath and lungs find their rhythm.
I have a pace after all!
We run a loop through the neighborhood and stop under an island of pines.
Matthew recommends we keep walking so the lactic acid doesn’t build up—he ran cross country this year and remembers the lessons and running science he’s been taught. And so we do, to end of the road and back again before finishing last of run. We talk baseball and running—Paul Skenes, Livy Dunn, Ozzy Smith flips, Randy Johnson athleticism apart from being able to throw 100mph fastballs and sliders, “are there any fathers and sons both in the Hall of Fame,” almost-Hall of Famers, and more. At our pace, there was time for ample spectrum of conversation.
When it ended, I felt better—part for the run, exertion and effort made; and more for time and connection with my son. Fourteen, freshman in high school—moments and times are no longer everyday, so I am grateful when they are.
Maybe tomorrow we’ll go again.