I went running with my fifteen year old son last weekend.
A little background: I ran on the cross-country team in high school for three years. I started sporadically running again after the kids were born, and gradually began running in local races--some 5k's, then on to some 10k's, and then half-marathons. I've run six half-marathons. I've completed two sprint triathlons. I've completed an Avon 2 Day Walk, where my sister-in-law and I walked 26 miles on Day 1 and 13 miles on Day 2. So I've had some experience with exercise, and more than a passing interest in running in particular.
You can imagine how thrilled I was, after years of encouraging my kids to give running a try, when my son joined the cross-country team this year. He is a sophomore, and has a definite runner's build--tall and lanky. He was made for running.
He has had an impressive first year in the sport. He runs on the frosh-soph team. He talks about VO2 MAX, and PR's, and hill sprints and overpass repeats. He's run at altitude. He's run a mile in six minutes. He's done things in his first year that I have not, and will not, ever accomplish as a runner.
Which brings me to our weekend run a few days ago.
We go to the beach a lot--same beach each time. There's a hill at this beach that I have run many times. It's long. It's steep. It's challenging. It calls to me. I've told my son about this hill before, but last weekend was the first time he has ever been interested in going with me to tackle it. In my defense, I have not been running regularly. Or sporadically. Or at all. For awhile. A long while. Probably eight months. But none-the-less, when I'm at the beach, the hill calls. I must answer.
So we set out, the two of us, to get to the hill. The only way, unfortunately, to get to the hill is to run along the beach. Running on sand, while it looks all romantic in commercials and on soap operas, is not fun. It is not a stable or flat surface. You twist your ankles and run at an angle and generally do not do your lower back any good. If you have to run on sand, you try to run on the harder sand, near the water's edge. For some reason, that day, there was no hard sand. Every step we took we sank about two inches down. My son kept running the whole time, not finding any discomfort in the torturously uneven surface. My son was practically jogging in place I was going so slow. He actually ran backward at one point for a few steps. He chatted. He smiled. I struggled.
Finally, after what to me felt like a ten mile run, we covered the quarter mile it takes to get to the base of the hill. There we were, at the bottom, staring up the road that led up to the top. I gave my son the obligatory, "Hey, you run faster than me. Feel free to go at your own pace. I'll meet you at the top." Yes, I said that, but in my mind I was thinking, "Yeah, I'll be right behind you. I've got this. I know this hill. I've conquered it before. You won't be far ahead of me, the seasoned runner."
So off we went. My son virtually sprinted up the hill--at least that's what it looked like to me. His blond hair was flowing backwards he was going so damn fast. He quickly disappeared over the ridge line ahead of me as I reached about a quarter of the way up the hill. A group of men were walking down the hill, and I tried to think of something witty to say to them as we passed one another, but a combination of oxygen depravation and the inability to utter anything but a gasping-for-breath sound prevented me from doing so. We passed in silence (other than my gasping).
I began to walk. Or maybe it could have been categorized as a very, very, very slow run. Perhaps a very, very, very slow jog. Okay, I walked. And then I began to run again. And then I walked. And then I ran. And walked. I finally made it to the top of the hill. My son was nowhere in sight. It gets really flat at the top of the hill for a few hundred yards (before it goes up yet again), so I decided this was my best chance at running for more than twenty steps without having to stop and walk. From the side road, my son appeared. He hadn't run ahead--he had been running loops on the side roads that go into the campgrounds while he waited for me. Yep, I was that slow. I commented on my lack of prowess. He reminded me that he had been training for five months. I considered that perhaps, yes, that might make a difference. Perhaps I wasn't in peak shape. Mind you, I merely considered these thoughts. I was not convinced of them. I was seriously still thinking that I might make a miraculous comeback at some point on this run, that my past running abilities and long-ago training would suddenly come back to me, sending waves of shock and awe through my son as I passed him by (or at least caught up to him).
We continued on. Up a bit more--again, he ran ahead and disappeared. He reappeared as he ran back down (yes, back down--he had chosen to run up this optional little side hill while waiting for me to catch up) a boardwalk-like path that went up the dunes to give what is, according to my son, a breathtaking view of the ocean and the hills. He was so excited about the view--"Do you want to run up the path and see it Mom?" Seriously? I am fighting to catch my breath even walking this regular hill, and he's literally running circles around me and finding additional hills to add in just for fun. I am feeling all 44 of my years at this point, with perhaps a few tacked on for good measure.
We continued on, down the other side of the hill. Damn it, he was even faster than me on the downhill. Now we were at a crossroads. We could either retrace our steps and head back the way we came, or run a flat (er) route back to the condo. We weighed the pros and cons of each.
retrace steps over hill:
pro: faster, and we'd been gone quite a while at this point--I was afraid a search party might be out looking for us
pro: the hill is a fun challenge (that was from my son)
pro: it's a shorter distance back
con: it's a hill (that was from me)
run flat(er) route:
pro: it's flat(er)
con: it takes longer
con: it is a longer distance, and I don't think I can run that far right now (again, that was from me, not my son)
So, you can see that the pro's were greater for retracing our steps. We turned around and headed back up over the hill. Once again, my son disappeared up into the distance, leaving me to hum the Rocky theme song to myself as I tried to imagine that the hill in front of me was the set of steps that Rocky inspirationally ran up without stopping. I imagined I could run the whole thing, just like Rocky did. Turns out my imagination needs some work. I walked. And I ran. And I walked. And when I finally caught up with my son, he was waiting for me at the top so we could do the last downhill stretch together. Which we did. And it hurt. Downhills hurt. Uphills hurt. It all hurts! The hill wins! I will not approach the hill again unless I am better prepared.
We made it to the bottom, and jogged out onto the beach to head home.
We decided, together, that it's too hard to run on the sand (thank you, my wonderful son, for that one--I know you could have run it no problem). We took off our shoes, and walked the last stretch talking about what college he currently wants to go to, what majors he's interested in, and what he's looking for in a college. He told me he'd like to stay sort of close to home.
I went running with my fifteen year old son last weekend. It may have been the best run of my life.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
An Explanation of My Blog, "The Fish Jumped"
October 25, 2010
I just dated my blog. That is how little I know about blogs. I'm guessing that somewhere the template I chose probably dates the entry automatically. But again, I'm guessing. What if I'm wrong? Thus, the date. Clearly, I did not do much research before diving into this.
One might think, from reading the title of this blog, that it is about fish. One would be wrong. This is very much not about fish. This is about the everyday goings on of me, my husband, my kids, and our lives. Sometimes funny things happen. Sometimes they are tragically funny. Or funnily tragic. I make up words. You should know that about me.
Back to the title. Years ago, I'm guessing maybe eight years ago or so (I could be off by several years either way--you should also know that I'm not a detail person) we had a large fishtank. It sat on a shelf halfway up the wall going up our stairs. Our tank had two fish I think. Might have been one. Again, not a detail girl. But I'm pretty sure it was two. They had names. One might have been named Mr. Frumble, like the little character from the Busy Town books and cartoon show. The other had a name, also, but it escapes me. It was something girly sounding, like Lilya or Petunia.
Our two kids (who would have been around 5 and 7 at the time) would occasionally watch the fish swim around. My husband would feed the fish (I think it's great that the word fish is actually both the singular and plural, because now it doesn't really matter if it was one or two, does it?) every night as he walked up the stairs to go to bed. When the glass on the front of the tank got so green that you couldn't tell if there was anything in the tank, someone (and by someone, I mean my husband) would clean the tank, making the glass clear and the water sparkling. It looked beautiful when it was clean, so much so that we would always comment that since the tank was in such a prominent place in our home, we should always keep it looking so clean. We didn't really follow through much on that.
Anyway, so here's this tank with fish. And everything seemed to be fine. Or so I thought.
One morning, after getting the kids off to school and getting some errands done, I noticed that the lid to the tank was half open. You have to open it like that to feed the fish, so I assumed that perhaps it had gotten left open after the fish were fed the previous evening. It had happened many times before, no big deal. However, this time I noticed that there were little water droplets on the table just below the fish tank. Odd. The filter was on as usual, and it was bubbling, but no more than it usually did. Certainly not enough to splash outside of the tank.
And then I saw her. Him. It. I really don't know which fish it was.
He/she/it was lying on the floor, on the cold, hard saltillo paver tile, lifeless, in a tiny little pool of water. I didn't know what to do. This kind of thing had never happened to me before. So I did the only thing I could think of upon encountering a non-breathing body. I gently lifted him/her/it to the kitchen counter, and tried gentle compressions to get its tiny body to breathe. I know. Really, I know. That poor little fish. If there was any life left in him/her/it at that point, I'm sure I CPR'd it right out. I sort of forgot that fish don't have the whole "P" part of CPR. In my defense, when my heroic actions did not bring any life back to the little guy, I did try putting it in a bowl of water. Probably should have tried that first.
I wasn't thinking clearly. All I could think about at the time was how I was going to tell our kids that their fish had died. I knew they wouldn't take it well. Our son would be stoic, but he would be so sad. And our daughter, I was positive, would collapse into wrecks of sobbing tears and never get over the emotional scar. And I would have to somehow carry on knowing that life in the tank had gotten so bad for our poor little fish that he/she/it had jumped. The fish jumped.
So, this blog--not about fish. Just about funny or quirky or adventurous or interesting little things that happen in the lives of our family.
Epilogue: The kids came through with no permanent traumatization. My son now has a somewhat large fishtank in his room. Luckily for him, the fish he has in there apparently need no light, as the front glass is 99% of the time covered in a thick, green algae (that according to him, the fish love, because they like to eat it....dubious). My daughter has a small fish bowl in her room, with one fish in it. The bowl has no cover on it. I check everyday to make sure that fish looks happy.
I still do not know the names of any of my kids' fish.
I just dated my blog. That is how little I know about blogs. I'm guessing that somewhere the template I chose probably dates the entry automatically. But again, I'm guessing. What if I'm wrong? Thus, the date. Clearly, I did not do much research before diving into this.
One might think, from reading the title of this blog, that it is about fish. One would be wrong. This is very much not about fish. This is about the everyday goings on of me, my husband, my kids, and our lives. Sometimes funny things happen. Sometimes they are tragically funny. Or funnily tragic. I make up words. You should know that about me.
Back to the title. Years ago, I'm guessing maybe eight years ago or so (I could be off by several years either way--you should also know that I'm not a detail person) we had a large fishtank. It sat on a shelf halfway up the wall going up our stairs. Our tank had two fish I think. Might have been one. Again, not a detail girl. But I'm pretty sure it was two. They had names. One might have been named Mr. Frumble, like the little character from the Busy Town books and cartoon show. The other had a name, also, but it escapes me. It was something girly sounding, like Lilya or Petunia.
Our two kids (who would have been around 5 and 7 at the time) would occasionally watch the fish swim around. My husband would feed the fish (I think it's great that the word fish is actually both the singular and plural, because now it doesn't really matter if it was one or two, does it?) every night as he walked up the stairs to go to bed. When the glass on the front of the tank got so green that you couldn't tell if there was anything in the tank, someone (and by someone, I mean my husband) would clean the tank, making the glass clear and the water sparkling. It looked beautiful when it was clean, so much so that we would always comment that since the tank was in such a prominent place in our home, we should always keep it looking so clean. We didn't really follow through much on that.
Anyway, so here's this tank with fish. And everything seemed to be fine. Or so I thought.
One morning, after getting the kids off to school and getting some errands done, I noticed that the lid to the tank was half open. You have to open it like that to feed the fish, so I assumed that perhaps it had gotten left open after the fish were fed the previous evening. It had happened many times before, no big deal. However, this time I noticed that there were little water droplets on the table just below the fish tank. Odd. The filter was on as usual, and it was bubbling, but no more than it usually did. Certainly not enough to splash outside of the tank.
And then I saw her. Him. It. I really don't know which fish it was.
He/she/it was lying on the floor, on the cold, hard saltillo paver tile, lifeless, in a tiny little pool of water. I didn't know what to do. This kind of thing had never happened to me before. So I did the only thing I could think of upon encountering a non-breathing body. I gently lifted him/her/it to the kitchen counter, and tried gentle compressions to get its tiny body to breathe. I know. Really, I know. That poor little fish. If there was any life left in him/her/it at that point, I'm sure I CPR'd it right out. I sort of forgot that fish don't have the whole "P" part of CPR. In my defense, when my heroic actions did not bring any life back to the little guy, I did try putting it in a bowl of water. Probably should have tried that first.
I wasn't thinking clearly. All I could think about at the time was how I was going to tell our kids that their fish had died. I knew they wouldn't take it well. Our son would be stoic, but he would be so sad. And our daughter, I was positive, would collapse into wrecks of sobbing tears and never get over the emotional scar. And I would have to somehow carry on knowing that life in the tank had gotten so bad for our poor little fish that he/she/it had jumped. The fish jumped.
So, this blog--not about fish. Just about funny or quirky or adventurous or interesting little things that happen in the lives of our family.
Epilogue: The kids came through with no permanent traumatization. My son now has a somewhat large fishtank in his room. Luckily for him, the fish he has in there apparently need no light, as the front glass is 99% of the time covered in a thick, green algae (that according to him, the fish love, because they like to eat it....dubious). My daughter has a small fish bowl in her room, with one fish in it. The bowl has no cover on it. I check everyday to make sure that fish looks happy.
I still do not know the names of any of my kids' fish.
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