Vicarious Running

 By Rebekah Trittipoe

            We all do it.  Vicarious living, that is.  Consider a father who always wanted to be a doctor but never followed through.  With paternal pushing and prodding through the years, the son finds himself in medical school.  When the son opens his own practice, no one is happier than Dad.  His every breath speaks of the son’s accomplishments.  He eats, sleeps and talks of his offspring’s success.  Seeming to abandon his own dreams, now hidden in the darkness of the years, he basks in the brilliance of his son’s career.  He is truly proud.

            I know the feeling. In my case, there is no jealousy of a son’s impressive professional standing.  Nor is there a wishful longing to match an equally impressive salary.  No, my case is quite different. The child is just barely into his teens and doesn’t even earn an allowance!  Nevertheless, I am proud!

            God has blessed us with two wonderful sons.  The oldest, Caleb, decided a couple of years ago to see what it was like to run an ultra.  As a 15 year old, he ran a 34 mile trail race in miserable and muddy conditions, completing the distance without difficulty in 6:22.  I was by his side all day and proud!  Then, the following year, his younger brother decided to one-up his brother by running the same race when he was just 12 years old.  Like the year before, I was with Seth to see him run 6:12.  I was proud once again.

            Soon thereafter, Seth decided that he wanted to be the youngest ten-time finisher of Holiday Lake 50K++.  At that rate, he’ll be through when he is 21 years old.  Though quite a lofty goal, Seth approached the race this year with a confidence known only by the most undaunted of souls.  Beginning January 1, Seth accompanied fellow ultrarunners to the mountains for the weekend long run.  He seemed to thrive on the verbal jousting that always goes on.  It did not seem to matter that a number of runners were more than four times his age.  Nor did he seem to mind that his mother was in the group. And, it didn’t bother him in the least to run away from her!  He refused to run at the back of the pack, staying on the heels of the likes of David Horton and Bethany Patterson.  A little cocky, to be sure, the 13 year old ran with the confidence and flare of someone much older. 

            When race day come, Seth was set to go.  Proudly dressed in a Montrail shirt and hat, his unspoken goal was to best himself and run under six hours.  In my mind, I doubted that I would be able to keep up with him.  Surprised, we ended up running the first 8 or 9 miles together.  I was feeling comfortable and pleased until he told me that he was just pacing off of me so that he did not go out too fast.  On one of the uphills, he started pulling away.  As I watched him run so smoothly into the distance I found that rather than being upset that he had gone on, I was bursting with pride.

            Throughout the day I heard myself asking other runners, “Hey, did you see that kid up there?  He’s mine and he’s only 13!”  After the turnaround, I lived to receive many reports by the other runners on how good Seth was looking.  The college girls that manned a couple of the aid stations were gushing about him.  I just beamed and was content to maintain a 3-5 minute deficit to him.

            The approach to the last aid station is a long, arduous climb up a dirt road.  As I started the ascent and rounded the first curve, my heart absolutely dropped to see Seth in the distance.  My husband was walking with him.  At one point, he turned around and I knew he saw me.  I was devastated for his sake since I knew how disappointed he would be if I caught him. 

            Closing the distance to 50 yards by the time I reached the aid station at the top of the hill, I called out to him asking if he wanted company for the last 3.5 miles.  Receiving his “no” with mixed feelings, I watched as he took off.  My husband told me that he was really struggling.  Nevertheless, he had told Seth that he still had a chance to break 5:30.  Seeing me and knowing that he had 37 minutes to dip below 5:30 must have inspired him.  It inspired me too.  I wanted to catch him.  I tried to catch him.  I could not catch him.

            Seth made a mental decision to hurt more and longer.   He dug deep and refused to give in to the overwhelming desire to walk and be content with what he had already accomplished.  He showed a toughness that is so uncommon in young people - and old -alike.  On the final downhill to the finish, he found another gear, knocking off three more runners.  He crossed the line in 5:28, a full 44 minutes quicker than last year.

            When I finally won the battle over cramping calves, I reached the finish about five minutes after Seth.  I looked for him but he was no where to be found.  He was already in the shower, a well-earned award for a race well-run.  I was ecstatic when I heard his time!  When he did emerge from the cabin, hair still wet and tousled, I held his face in my hands, looked into his eyes and started crying.  It was hard to communicate how proud I was.  What he had done was so grown up.  But, as we hugged and I told him I loved him, he suddenly became my little boy again when he said, “I love you too, Mommy”.

            There is pleasure in running for yourself.  There is pleasure in running with a team. But there is no pleasure comparable to running through someone else- especially when that someone else is your son.  Long may he run .  Long may I run.