Gym class of the apocalypse

"When do we start," she asked as I raise my wrist to the heavens.

She doesn't look happy. Not that I expect glee.

Running is not exactly her "thing." And coaching isn't really mine.

"Just waiting for a satellite," I tell her, holding my breath as I wait for the hollow bar graph in my watch face to fill its tallest column.

We walk slowly and quietly until the GPS' alarm bleats into readiness.

It is her first official day of social distance learning, and my daughter has agreed to go for a run with me to fulfill the novel do-it-herself gym class.

She had set the parameters to which I have agreed: No more than two miles of flat, lonesome landscape. She doesn't want to run into anyone she knows.

Social distancing, she's often complained during her blossoming teen years, has already become the adolescent superpower she resents most of all.

Of course, she's dressed as if invisibility were her hidden strength. All in black, with a neat ponytail that swings like a clock's pendulum in time with the pumping of her arms.

She is happy the State Authorities have advised folks to keep a respectable, I'm-not-with-this-person-distance between themselves and, say, their mother, who happens to be dressed head-to-toe in an alarming array of neon-bright colors.

The watch makes its connection, and we start to run. She lopes ahead like a dancer. Her stride is graceful and even, each foot landing softly on its toes.

I struggle to keep up with her.

"You have to pace yourself," I say with the same level of tension that creeps into my voice as when I'm sitting in the passenger seat of my own car, pressing the imaginary brake, telling the student driver to slow down.

Her reddening cheeks and steely expression in these moments are the reasons why I appreciate and long for the return of professional education.

Eventually, we find a rhythm that works for us: it includes intervals of walking and gratuitous swearing.

I always start that ball rolling when temperatures threaten to boil over:

"Whose %#>£* idea was this anyway?"

"It was your %#>£* idea, genius. ... and look over there ... that up ahead looks like a %{*~!~*~!^{!€ HILL.

I thought I had made myself clear: NO. %{*~!~*~!^{!€ #<%^ $&:€¥ HILLS!"

The truth is, I didn't plan to end the run on a hill, but here we were, looking at a steady climb.

"Relax, I know the trick: we're going to shorten our stride and take tiny steps. Pretend you are climbing upstairs. Don't exert extra effort, just breathe."

There may have been a string of choice words following us up that hill, but we finished strong.

Even she had to admit that she loved how the run felt after it was over.

"Like you accomplished something?"

"Yeah, but more like how it lit up my Snapchat."

"That's how running hooks you."

"Same time tomorrow?"

"Same time tomorrow. Now, hit the showers!"