She doesn’t know it, but it’s there.
She doesn’t see it, but I do. When I look to my left, at the girl running beside me, I see her Uncle Larry. A 4:16 miler in high school, he was the kid with the natural talent who hated to lose. But, it wasn’t always that way. There was a day when Larry was one of us — just another country kid who made it from the start to the finish in an unremarkable time. But he gradually improved. He wasn’t the leader of the team. He ran well, did his best, then got on the bus like everyone else.
Until one day…
The transition, as I recall, came most vividly at the state cross country finals my senior year. When the gun fired that morning, it was if we had a new runner on our team. I’ve always said Larry suddenly believed in himself, believed he could be a great distance runner. For the first time all year, he was our lead man. At a home meet the following track season, he finally beat his arch nemesis in the half mile. The school yearbook captures the moment, Larry grabbing at the string across the finish line, Dave Painter several strides behind him.
When I look at that photo, I see the runner Larry became, and I remember the runner he once was.
And, when I look to my left, I see the girl who has the potential her uncle displayed.
Today she and I go 4 miles, one of my favorite routes from my old running days, an out-and-back to a bridge over the Big Blue River. It’s a concrete structure now, but I remember the steel box bridge from years ago, a historic span the county condemned and subsequently razed. I tell her about that old bridge and about the first house I lived in, just up Mill Road, when I moved to the county in 1986. She hears my words, but I know she’s already thinking about the two miles to home. She’s processing the distance in her mind. A lesser runner would simply look at the water and not care about what’s to come.
I wish for her the best, and I will do everything in my power to provide it. Staying by her side as long as I can, and cheering from a distance when I must.
I believe in her in ways I was never able to believe in myself. And yet, at the same time, I’m still running, too. In the end, there might be hope for both of us.
Run: 4 miles
