The other night, after dinner, he asked me, earnestly, if I could talk to him about the race. He wanted to know if I had any tips for him. At poignant moments like that, sometimes I feel like my heart is going to shatter into a million tiny pieces. The purity - the perfectness - of that moment astounds me. It's a memory - a snapshot moment - I will cherish.
The only thing I told him was to think about running negative splits, running the second half of the 1 1/2 miles race faster than the first. "It's your race," I said. "Your chance to learn. I don't want to get in the way of that opportunity." Continuing, I said, "Let's talk after the race."
With JP, I've always let him run his race. He doesn't need me putting any more pressure on him that he already is putting on himself. I don't want to add to the emotions he feels before a race and at the starting line. I feel the same way about Joe. We'll see how the race goes, then debrief afterwards.
One tough thing for Joe, though, is that he's not only running against his teammates and kids from other schools. He's running against JP - or his memory of JP - as a 5th grader. I've reminded him several times that JP was not the runner in 5th grade that he is now. JP never won a cross country race in 5th grade. Never came close to it, actually. Joe is listening to me but I'm not sure he hears me.
I'm excited for Joe to begin this next chapter in his athletic life. To do something completely new. Run a cross country race.
I'm going to skip out of a mediation early, leaving Andrea in charge, and hustle over to University School, much like I did with JP when he was in 5th grade and at the beginning of his journey as a runner. Joe's there now and I'm going to be there to see him off.
I'm already nervous but that's what happens to me at cross country races. Every time.
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