Running in Circles

T -- who set eight boys' seven-and-under age group records with our local track club this year -- has decided to become an anti-runner.

I think there are two components -- the opposite of "you have to be in it to win it" being "you can't lose if you're not in it,"-- and knowing that I like to watch him run. I'm very careful to avoid overemphasizing the competitive aspect and praising him for "winning," but instead telling him that I enjoy watching him run and seeing him work hard to do his best.

But still. Anything Mommy likes is the opposite of what T likes. That's the way it goes these days.

I wrote yesterday about our skiing escapades and how it was not the greatest family outing ever. After I thought about it, I realized there's been a recent success story. Involving running. And I should not just vent here in the blogosphere; I should share success stories.

I've signed up for another triathlon. Two actually. And I have my eye on a few running races between now and then. So I need to keep up my training. Tough to do when a certain little one objects strenuously to any suggestion of going near a track -- let alone running.

I knew on Thursday that I needed to go do my long run that day before dinner. It was a sunny day, but running around the neighborhood is not an option with Mr. Complaino. I have to go to the track. I can bribe him there by allowing him to bring a soccer ball, which he can either use to kick around on the infield or shoot baskets with. Even then, considerable whining takes place on the way there, while there, on the way home from there, and the next day.

I spent the afternoon dreading the moment I would tell him that we were going to the track. My stomach was in knots. Hubs came home, ostensibly to help me out, which I thought meant all of us going to the track, but his plans were to nap while T puttered around the house.

The child is in desperate need of large motor movement. So I packed him up and took him with. Having Hubs in the house reduced the amount of pre-getting-in-the-car whining, so it was helpful.

We had a minor melt down over the soccer ball. It had been stored in the subfreezing garage and so was soft. But as it warmed up on the way to the facility, the air expanded and the ball became hard enough to kick and dribble. There was just enough give to not make it had on one's foot to kick it. Perfectly air-filled. Someone wanted to pump air into it anyway, but I had no desire to stand out in the bitter cold messing with pumping up a ball that didn't need pumping up.

We grumped inside and found that the hoops and infield curtain had been removed. Some event was going on that they were beginning to prepare for, so the track was open, but not much for a boy with a ball to do. Even better.

I sent him over to one corner and suggested he practice toe touches, close dribbling, pull-backs, and step-overs. He just wanted to kick the snot out of the ball. I warned him to keep it off the track. The track was busy and there's nothing as fun as trying to run while dodging errant balls.

He kicked it hard and it got away from him and rolled onto the track. He got to it before it interfered with any runners. I warned him again not to let it roll onto the track.

Again, a hard kick, and roll across the infield and onto the lanes in front of oncoming runners. "The next time it goes onto the track, you'll have to put it away," I warned. I was about a mile and a half in to my three mile run.

Three minutes later, another boot, another roll onto the track. "Okay, put it back in the bag!" I hollered across the way. He dribbled it back to our spot.

"What can I do?"

"You can run," I said. "Do sprints." There were several athletes with brown skin like him there doing interval workouts.

To my great surprise, he did.

He started flying down the 55 meter straightaway, and then stopping, breathing hard, and walking back to the start.

Then, when I had six laps to go, I heard his footsteps coming up along side me. This was, to my surprise, not a race to show me up, but just to catch up with me to have a little chat. "Good job, Mommy!" he said. Then he rubbed my back a bit, and then was off to sprint again.

He caught up with me again, slowed to run with me, rubbed my back some more. "Do you want me to get you your water bottle?" he asked. "No thank you, I'm almost done," I said.

One more catch-up, one more back rub. Then another sprint away. He is really a joy to watch.

That night I said to him, "Thank you for being my running buddy today."

"You're welcome," he said. "It was fun." Wow, that was good to hear.

"Thanks for saying 'good job, Mommy,'" I continued.

"Well, you'd been running and running and running for a real long time." I think there was even a hint of admiration in his voice.