For the past few Saturday mornings the child and I have headed to Lake Merritt and met up with a group called Running for a Better Oakland (RBO for short which lends itself fantastically to the oft shouted by 8 year old types
& their annoying 44 year old compatriot LETS GO RBO!!!).
It’s been fun.
*Still* fun when we ran in pouring rain and did mountain climbers whilst deftly avoiding clumps of soggy goose poop.
In addition, the Tornado and some classmates have gathered on the playground after school and run laps around the building.
Instead of whining about this plan—as quite frankly I’d anticipated—she’s viewed doing the laps as hardcore.
All these RUN’ventures and practices are leading up to the Oakland Running Festival.
The Tornado & I and all the other R.B.O. runners will come together that morning and run the 5k.
She is her mother’s daughter in the sense she’s not a fast runner which has resulted in our having the conversation *many* times where Ive told with her:
I don’t care if we are the last pair to cross the finish line. I don’t care if we walk a LOT. All I care about is we’re having fun!
Last week, in response to the above sentiment, she responded:
Right! Because this is the first time you’ve ever competed, or trained or done anything before.
At first I was shocked.
Hadn’t she noticed the photos of me competing hidden somewhere around the house?
Didn’t she remember when I ran
my only race ever that Disney half-marathon?
She knew I rocked the PLAYouts—but she didn’t recall my setting a lofty goal, training, and giving my all on the day of the event.
I slackline. I don’t compete!
Her comment both surprised me and sparked me to wonder if it would be a gift to *her* if I trained for something or competed one more time.
If I practiced what I LONGED to preach about setting and working toward goals in all realms of life.
I knew I wasn’t crossfit. I knew I didn’t want bodybuilding. I’d EXPERIENCED and she’d seen how running was not my gift.
I received an email and I took it as a sign.
The email was from ZOOMA a group I knew to be run by women. In all sense of the words.
An all female staff. Mainly run (in the literal) sense by women as well.
They invited me to come speak at their Napa race and, instead of responding with a resounding YES! I responded with a YES, BUT…
Yes, but may I also run the half-marathon that weekend?
Hitting send on that email was a pretty terrifying experience.
Forget the Zooma women (I knew I could always feign an injury with them and still show up to speak)—once I told the child I was training for a half-marathon I’d be completely committed.
I’d have to follow through.
Plan, train, and race.
It doesn’t matter to me how long it takes to find that finish line—-I need to cross it.
I will cross it.
Remember this photo from four years ago (yeah, I barely do either.)?
That’s what I’ll be at the ZOOMA race in June.
Guest speaking, feeling terrified and seeking my badass inner mother runner one final time.
And now I turn to you.
- What’s your best tip for a NonRunnerMother? Galloway? Hal Higdon? It’s all a jumble up in herre…
- If you could hear me speak on *any* topic under the sun—what would it be (not rhetorical! not rhetorical!)?
- California friends? Wanna wog together and
whinewine together after?
Zooma generously invited me to speak and, at my
demand request is also paying my race fee. This is all highly kind yet does nothing to mitigate my terror.