songs of experience

There’s a scene at the end of EB White’s classic short story, Once More to the Lake, where a father watches his son wade into an August lake right after an evening thunderstorm. He spent the whole story detailing an idyllic summer vacation in America, how nothing had changed since he was a boy (and how reassuring that was), how he had difficulty distinguishing himself from his son in “this holy spot” of boyhood memories (”I had trouble making out which was I, the one walking at my side, the one walking in my pants.”) … so the ending comes as quite a shock - the perfect shock, if you ask me, the kind of shock all great short stories must provide:

“When the others went swimming my son said he was going in too. He pulled his dripping trunks from the line where they had hung all through the shower, and wrung them out. Languidly, and with no thought of going in, I watched him, his hard little body, skinny and bare, saw him wince slightly as he pulled up around his vitals the small, soggy, icy garment. As he buckled the swollen belt suddenly my groin felt the chill of death.”

On Saturday, I ran a local 5k that I have raced over a dozen times in my life. It ushers in spring every year and serves as a marker for my fitness - how does this year compare to last, and the year before that, and the year before that? I ran a fine time for an old gal (18:04) and was pleased to note my consistency over 5 years as a masters runner - from age 40 to 44 my times ranged from 17:42 to 18:12. Still under 6:00 pace! But THIS year, something was different about my annual ritual … all three of my daughters were racing too. 12 year-old SJ in the 5k, and Rosie & Lizzie in the fun run (which turned out to be not-so-fun as both crashed to the bricks - amassing skinned knees, a fat lip, and a broken left pinky).

On this beautiful spring morning, my own effort was a bit of an afterthought. All during my race I was wondering how Sarah Jane was faring behind me in her first solo 5k (I’d run side-by-side with her in previous outings) and after I crossed the line I tore back up the road with water and gatoratde in hand (should she need them) to witness the final stretch of her race. I didn’t have to wait long; there she was!! A full 3 minutes faster than she’d ever run before - rolling down the hill, beaming, sweating, grunting, “No. Thanks.” when I offered water. “Do you want me to run you in?” I asked/yelled. “No. - I’m. - Fine.” One-syllable utterances, I always tell my runners. If you can say anything more than one syllable, you aren’t running hard enough.

And she was. Fine. Alone and striding powerfully toward the finish line. HER finish line, not ours. Not even mine anymore. From here on out, I will look back over Sarah Jane’s race results (and then Rosie’s and Lizzie’s) to compare their times over the years - to chart their improvement.

Mr. White, I’d say I felt the chill of life out there on Saturday - not death.

… but, then again, maybe we felt the same thing.