Hell, Yeah

Today was our annual outing to the Groton Road Race, where I ran the 5k and Henry ran the Tot Trot. You know your child has running in his blood (or at least is reminded of running constantly) when he gets up and says, "Do I race today?" I didn't start using "race" as a verb until this year. My four year old says it with the nonchalance of Usain Bolt (after a bender, when he can't recall his schedule).

The theme of the day? Hell on earth.

Don't misunderstand. I love Groton. I love their road race. We've gone three times and chronicled Henry's growth every year.

Here's the hell part:

1. Hell is hot, no?

It was 80 degrees at race time, which is freaky weird weather for this part of the world in April. Good for frozen margaritas; bad for running.

For this race, I summoned the courage to wear the race singlet from my running club. I just hadn't yet felt like I should be representing anyone, but lately I've felt my running is strong enough for it. So I put it on. I felt sassy. I felt speedy.

I felt hot. And not hawt. Just plain ole hot.

So when I got there I took it off. I raced in the bare minimum because of the heat-- love handles, stretch marks, and cellulite be damned. Next time for the singlet.

2. Pre-race massage by a Hell's Angel.



Okaaaaaaay, he probably wasn't actually a Hell's Angel. But don't you think it's fascinating that my husband is taking a photo of me having my ass rubbed by a biker? Brian is either the most secure spouse on the planet and/or he has a perverse voyeuristic streak. Either way is awesome, if you ask me.

3. What's the most hellish scenario you can imagine as a parent?

Henry lined up for his Tot Trot, which runs about 200 meters of the track. We stood next to the track, and I planned to cut across the field to cheer at the finish while Brian followed the kids to take pictures.

Can you see where this is going?


Kid likes to run. Kid likes to run fast. Kid was there to race. Mama wasn't prepared for kid to beat her to the finish. Mama lost kid in the crowd at the finish.

For TEN minutes.

When I see mothers of lost children on TV, I used to wonder if I'd be the composed, shaky-voiced type or the hysterical, hyperventilating type.

There I am, doubled over and sobbing in the EMT tent while Brian and a mass of people search for my kid. When a friend found Henry and brought him over, you'd think he'd just been listening peacefully to a story under a shade tree. All was cool in Henry world. I, on the other hand, clutched him to me until he begged me to put him down, at which point, he said, "Did I win?"

"Yes, you won, pumpkin!" I said. Who the hell knows if the kid won the race? I sure don't care, but Henry has since enjoyed the best afternoon of his life--ice cream, movies, etc. I would buy him a killer whale (his favorite animal) right now if he asked me to.

4. Who the hell wants to run a 5k now?

About 20 minutes after I lost my kid and bled my adrenaline into panic, it was time for me to line up for the 5k. Yeah, no thanks. I really didn't want to race at that point and just wanted to take my kid home, but you know, I paid for it and everything and wanted to earn an afternoon of booze to recover from my earlier terror.

My goal was to run a 21:36, to shed two minutes from my 5k PR, which I set just before training with Nate. This was the hottest race I've ever run and I immediately knew that the heat, combined with the energy I drained on losing the kid, meant I wouldn't see that 2-minute PR.



I ran it in 22:09. Bugger. At least my family didn't lose me at the finish and have to send out a search party; they could hear me panting from across the infield.


That's me closing in on the finish, not me racing to find my kid 45 minutes earlier.

5. Hell, yeah.

So um, lots of hell today. But here's the second place finisher in her division hugging her wayward boy before they headed home.


He's totally cool with me holding him in a grip like that until he goes to college.