Letter 40

Standing Tall

Dear Reader,

It was dark when my teenage son and I loaded up for our recent road trip. I didn’t care that the sun would be at my face as we traveled East, or that the traffic would slow amid the construction beneath I-70 Missouri billboards.

Our schedules are such that I do not see him before I leave for work. He spends three hours after school at practice, and then usually has homework until bedtime, with me sneaking in a hug while bringing in food and a refilled water bottle.

In the last week I had realized I missed talking with him like I used to, when we both were younger, in the car traveling from one “adventure” to another, as we called them. Most of these adventures involved libraries and parks.

My son is just over a week from his 16th birthday and our road-trip destination was the Nike Cross Midwest Regionals(NXR) in Terre Haute, IN. Over the last few weeks we had both experienced a bit of heaviness - he with a disappointing finish at the state meet, me in a job that puts me close to how the current American climate is affecting those navigating poverty and trauma.

My solution to a lot of things is time and space. Readers of Errant Daisy will recall my catharsis recipe that likely includes a road trip. I also realized that my son still needs me, and since I am the parent who was the varsity athlete (and have experienced the joys and heartache of sports), I might be the right guardian for this season finale.

The NXR venue is an iconic course, and an exciting bookend to the season for high-school runners who can make the trek. The fastest times qualify for a Championship race, but other races are held to make sure runners across the spectrum can participate.

One of the highlights is the “Spike Tree,” which is believed to be a huge honey locust and it sets just off the route as runners might turn the corner for the final stretch of the 5K course. Running spikes dangle from high to low, covering it like a modern art project. Senior runners are encouraged to hurl their spikes in attempts of snagging a branch. There hang the plastic, the metal, the cloth. The fulfilled hopes. The crushed dreams.

That evening we picked him up, a week earlier, from the team bus after State, he was quiet. He was still processing what had happened in the middle of his not-so-great race. I saw him in his room a while later and he was putting on his shoes. He told me he was going to “go for a run.” This seemed like a positive coping mechanism - shake out his legs and quiet his mind, as running always does for him.

Since it was dark by that time my husband said he would follow him on the bike. They took off.

Forty minutes later my husband texted me, “I am trying to talk him out of running a half (marathon).” I replied with, “let me know if I need to pick you all up.”

But I knew to get in the car in case this was a spontaneous idea. He had run a hard 5K in the state race seven hours earlier. Now he wanted to go 13.1 miles more. He needed water. My husband might need someone to tag in.

I drove down a dark street and could see bicycle reflectors on the trail and knew he was running toward me. I pulled over, rolled down the window and asked if they needed water. My son paused and said, “Thanks, mom.” He was smiling and bouncing. Joy had returned.

He told me when he got home that he wanted to remember that day as the one when he ran his first half marathon.

That’s what I was thinking about as I watched athletes launch their spikes toward the NXR tree branches that day of the NXR race. It was nine days after my son ran his first half marathon, and he ran more than a minute faster on the NXR course this year than he had on the same course last year.

Perspective can expand gratitude. It can also help us persevere.

Thank you for reading, if you endured this far.

Warmly,

Traci