Pacing ourselves

The boy has been limping around the house for days, struggling with stretching exercises and trying to get pre-cut strips of elastic tape to adhere to his dewy skin.

His Achilles and he have been in an argument over his choice to join the high school's cross-country team. And it appeared to me, from the first few practices at least, that the fibrous tendons were winning.

For the past two months they were used to swimming a little and lounging a lot by the pool. They were not used to fast starts or pounding strain.

The words - I TOLD YOU SO wafted unsaid in the air.

His father had wanted him to run during the summer the way he would have back in his old school days. 

Dad envisioned all the noble goals: Team spirit! Pleasing the Coach! Putting in all the effort necessary to grow one’s skills! It was a father’s desire so fervent that the man became visibly perturbed by the boy’s general lack of motivation and purposeful observance of summer vacation as if the kid belonged to a strong union that had won a contract for relaxation.

It's understandable. Sport is supposed to be competitive. It's supposed to be a challenge. And those who take them up are supposed to show a degree of dedication that should in no way be comparable to the speed of a three-toed sloth. 

After all, by either definition, the results of a teammate’s acquiescence to such a glacial pace and low exertion might be widely perceived as a cardinal sin.

I was not going to hound him. 

As I told my husband; I run to avoid all the negativity I perceive in the world. And while I have no qualms about running with our son when he's willing, I am not going to suffer the wrath of a sullen teen just because of some external notion of a motherly duty. 

I'll drive him to practice literally, but I am not going to be the nag that drives him to do it figuratively. That’s on him. If he’s just doing this to be with his friends after school and on weekends that’s good enough for me. I do not need to see him break through ribbons or stand on podiums.

I’m not going to say any “I Told Ya Sos” either. 

Best to let his coach do the coaching, anyway. She told him she was impressed that he didn’t want to quit or take shortcuts. If he needed to walk, that’s what he’d do. She can be his inspiration. 

Honestly, I’m just happy he’s decided to be there at all. He’s never been one to complain, but he wears his thoughts on his face all the same. 

His expression told the story, translated in every conceivable language, that he was not in any way having fun. And yet tomorrow he’d be there again, straight-faced and anticipating no gain and more pain.

Which is why I never expected him to say what he said as he got out of the car:

“Hey, I meant to tell you, writing the ABCs in the air with my foot seems to be working, thanks!”

I didn't remember giving him that little tidbit of running recovery advice, but it is a standard not outside my repertoire. 

“Make sure you do both sides. You don't want to be off balance. You just need to build up to it. Just go easy and you’ll get there.”