Last weekend, I endured one of the toughest events of my life.
I watched a tiny dot on an app run the New York City Marathon. The dot was my son, Chase, who apparently decided that running one marathon wasn't enough. He's a very ambitious young man, so naturally he wasn't content to run just any marathon. No, he had to run the New York City Marathon, along with tens of thousands of other people who evidently have no better way to spend a Sunday morning.
As a mother, this was both good and bad news.
The good news was that I was enormously proud of him. For me, running to the corner is a challenge unless there's a sale or someone is giving away free samples. I have tremendous respect for anyone willing to run any distance, much less 26.2 miles.
The bad news is that I'm both a mother and a history buff.
According to ancient Greek legend, the marathon was inspired by a messenger who ran from the battlefield at Marathon to Athens to announce a great military victory, whereupon he promptly collapsed and died. This strikes me as a rather unfortunate origin story for a sporting event. I'm also fairly certain modern marathon runners are grateful he didn't have another ten miles left in him.
You would think I'd have been more nervous about Chase's first marathon than his second, but that wasn't the case. When he ran his first marathon in Austin, I was either in denial or oblivious. I can't remember which. That's probably cause for concern, but I'll save it for another blog post.
I do remember the race itself because I was the designated driver, responsible for maneuvering our car around barricades, navigating unfamiliar streets, finding parking spaces, jumping out to cheer, discovering we'd missed him, and getting back in the car to repeat the entire process.
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We finally caught up with him at Mile 22. We proudly held up our homemade sign and screamed his name. He glanced over at us and said, "This is harder than I thought it would be."
The New York City Marathon was an entirely different experience. Friends with an apartment on Central Park South generously invited us to stay with them, which meant we could watch the runners at approximately Mile 26.1, just as they entered Central Park. This was my kind of athletic event. I could participate in the excitement of a world-class sporting competition without breaking a sweat.
Chase had trained for months. He followed a carefully calculated plan that included exactly how fast he should run each mile, when he needed to hydrate, and how much energy he should conserve for the finish.
That's commendable, but he wasn't the only one preparing. I had been training, too.
You don't just wake up one morning and decide to become a marathon spectator. Well, perhaps some people do. Of the thousands lining the streets of New York, I'm sure a few had simply wandered out for coffee or gotten lost on their way to Bergdorf Goodman and stumbled upon the race.
But serious marathon mothers prepare.
In my case, I began riding my Peloton every day. I knew that after the race we'd have to walk a considerable distance to find Chase, and I didn't want to embarrass myself by requiring medical attention. As it turned out, I should have started training much earlier. Possibly during the Clinton administration.
After the race, my husband, oldest son, our friends, and I walked what seemed like several miles to find Chase. I'm fairly certain we covered more ground than some of the marathon participants who decided they'd made a terrible mistake and bowed out early.
In fairness, it wasn't entirely my lack of physical fitness that did me in. It was my footwear.
You see, I thought it would be a wonderful idea to represent Texas by wearing my fanciest cowboy boots. I imagined all those sophisticated New Yorkers admiring my stylish Western attire. Unfortunately, while the boots were extremely attractive, these boots weren’t made for walkin’. They were designed for standing around looking fashionable.
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There's a difference.
By the time we finally located Chase, my feet were in such bad shape that we had to take an Uber back to his hotel. Not because he'd just run 26.2 miles. Because his mother couldn't walk.
I suspect somewhere in New York there's an Uber driver still telling the story of the woman in cowboy boots who needed a ride while her son (fresh off completing a marathon) was perfectly capable of getting around on his own.
This brings me to another important consideration for marathon mothers: wardrobe. Dressing for a marathon is tricky. You need comfortable shoes, layers for the unpredictable weather, and enough pockets to carry everything you might need in an emergency. But you also need to look fashionable because there's a very real possibility your son will post a picture of you on Instagram. Nobody wants to become a meme at Mile 26.
One of the more interesting aspects of the marathon was observing the spectators. There were thousands of people lining the streets of New York, cheering for complete strangers. They were singing, dancing, waving signs, and generally having a wonderful time. As the mother of one of the runners, I found their carefree attitude disturbing. Didn't they realize these people had been running for hours? Had anyone checked their electrolytes? Was there a doctor nearby? Did everyone know where the nearest emergency room was?
One woman next to me was cheering while drinking a mimosa.
Clearly, she didn't have a child in the race.
I also discovered there are two types of marathon mothers. There are mothers who stand calmly along the route, cheering enthusiastically as their children pass. And there are mothers who are tracking their children's progress, calculating projected finish times, and wondering whether they've consumed enough sodium. I belong to the second group.
For approximately three hours, I stared at a tiny dot on my phone as it made its way through the five boroughs of New York City. Occasionally, the dot would stop moving. Naturally, I assumed the worst. Had he collapsed? Was he dehydrated? Had someone called an ambulance? Should I call an ambulance? My husband suggested that perhaps the app was simply experiencing a delay. This is the kind of reckless optimism that makes men completely unsuitable for motherhood.
As it turned out, Chase was doing just fine.
In fact, he finished the marathon in an astonishing 3 hours and 19 minutes.
I couldn't have been prouder.
I was also enormously grateful. I'd been told that many runners take around five hours to finish a marathon, so by completing his in just over three, Chase had spared me nearly two additional hours of maternal anxiety. I considered this an early Christmas present.
Watching him run toward the finish was one of those moments that makes all the years of motherhood worthwhile. I thought about the little boy who once needed me to hold his hand crossing the street and how he was now running through the streets of New York City, accomplishing something I couldn't begin to imagine doing myself.
Of course, I was also wondering whether he'd eaten enough breakfast.
Some things never change.
Chase is already talking about running another marathon.
I told him that's wonderful. Next time, however, I'm going to watch it on television. From a recliner. Wearing slippers. With a mimosa in one hand and a cardiologist on speed dial.
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After all, he may be the one running the marathon, but I'm the one who needs to survive it.
