This race took place, seven years ago, when I had a chance at beating my athletic son.
My son W and I ran a race together called the Dipsea, a tortuous, seven-mile climb and descent over a mountain, ending at the ocean.
Running a practice Dipsea a month earlier, I found that the mountain laughs at you. “You thought that incline was hard? Try this one! And you better pay attention to these treacherous tree roots and the poison oak in the valley.” Unlike most cross-country contests, though, this race uses handicaps developed from a long history of running performances. W, age thirteen, started a few minutes ahead of his 43-year-old father. Since W had just completed a season of soccer, and I was always the last one picked for anything when I was a kid, I didn’t consider the handicapping fair in our individual case. Still, I had trained on rocky hills more than W and could outrun him going straight up on the trail. He was much stronger than me on flatter sections, however.
Watching W explode off the start line at the shriek of the starting whistle, I told myself that I would not see him again until the end of the race. But it would be sweet to beat W, a natural athlete. When my group’s whistle sounded a short time later I forgot about my fantasy. I needed to pay attention to slippery stairs.
I wanted to get in a running groove. I was too absorbed in maintaining my balance on a precipitous descent nicknamed “Suicide.” My legs were hurting too much climbing out of steep ravines, listening to other runners gasping for breath.
As I ascended, a quarter mile from the peak, close to the halfway point, I suddenly saw him. He was walking. I caught up to him in a very steep section where we both had to walk. “W, are you OK?” “No, I feel sick. I think I’m dehydrated.” “What? Why didn’t you bring water? Here, drink mine.” W quickly gulped down the warm water. His pained expression relaxed. We walked together for another minute, and the trail flattened out somewhat. “I feel better now. Thanks Pops!” He slapped me on the butt and took off. I ran after him. We hit the last uphill section, and I accelerated. “See you later,” I jeered as I passed him, and we started a long downhill section. I’ve got to get way ahead of him now, I thought, or he’ll outrun me near the end where it’s flat. I pushed harder. After two miles I was 50 yards ahead of him when, oh no, a traffic jam of fat walkers clogged the narrow trail. I couldn’t get by and had to walk with them until the trail allowed room to pass. Before long, W was right in back of me again. The trail broadened and we both picked up the pace on a curvy and flat last mile.
I maintained a lead of five yards. As we rounded the last curve, 200 yards before the ocean-side finish, we passed a line of spectators. I heard a voice yell, “Go Mike!” and a second later, “Go W! Beat your dad!” I wasn’t going to be a good father and let him win. I was sprinting, giving the race everything I had left. Beating W would make up for all the times the kids laughed as I struck out, all the times I missed the critical free throw, all the times the grammar school teachers put me in the “special” PE class. “Go Mike! Go Mike!” I heard from somewhere. Twenty yards from the finish line, my insides couldn’t take the pounding anymore. I slowed down and motioned for W to pass. The crowd roared. What a nice, giving father!
