Big Man and I are training for a half marathon, which we will run on June 5th. I have this grand vision of us crossing the finish line, hand-in-hand, arms raised in a big, “Take that, prematurity!” kind of gesture. In all likelihood, he will hit that finish line at least ten minutes ahead of me, if not more. I won’t even be able to witness him finishing his first half marathon. For some odd reason, that makes me as emotional as it makes me proud.
We spend most of our training runs with him way out in front of me. It’s definitely pushed my pace, trying to at least keep him in my sights. But let’s face it, he’s 31 years younger, and a good deal lighter. He’s just going to be faster. He does walk more than I, but he doesn’t have the advantage of having trained for six half marathons under his belt as I do. He’s learning, but that means he takes off at his cross country training pace, and then has to walk a bit. I’m worried about him pushing it race day. The adrenaline flows so easily then. He will be running with his cousin, B, who is 9 months older than he, and who’s run a half before. I’m thinking B will help keep him reined in enough to get him to the finish.
Part of me wants to tell him to wait for me so we can finish together, but I won’t do that. I want him to run this race on his terms. He deserves that chance. He deserves to run it his way, finish it his way. I won’t hold him back, no matter how much I long for that memorable moment. There will be plenty of photo ops after the race is done.