I don't know what's more surprising, our unseasonably and in-the-60s-warm, snowless weather here the past couple of weeks or that I somehow survived it without being challenged to an early-morning race with Cal. I've been happily holding the temps-too-cold card in my back pocket for a few months now and only occasionally playing it when asked about a race. "Mommy, can I race you?" he may ask as I, myself, am racing out the door. "No, Baby Bear, it's too cold out," I naturally respond, as if that's really why I can't race. Our whole winter has been unseasonably warm. No, I'm running late, and I don't have time. No, it's too stressful. No, your sister will want to race, too, and... just, no. No, someone will cry. Those were my real excuses. Weather too cold was something he could understand and accept.
It's not that I hate... er, don't like racing the kid. It actually started out quirky and fun. But after the first week, our race was rarely without some form of stress on the participants, oftentimes involving tears.
We must've raced virtually every weekday in October, and I'm certain it rolled in to November at a relative frequency. We only raced as I headed out in the morning to catch the train, perhaps the worst time for it but, really, the only one. The starting point was the far east side of our driveway, and the finish was the corner where I'd make my turn to speed out of the subdivision. That we even call it a race is funny. It has to have been the most unfair match-up in the history of racing, with me in my car and him on his feet. Eventually, he did move to his bicycle, as if that made it any more fair.
I don't recall how it actually started other than to say that it wasn't my idea. It was all Cal. Of course he knows his audience -- I'm amenable to just about anything this kid proposes that we do, admittedly sometimes with reservation but almost always willing to participate if I have time, and even when I really don't. He also thinks he's really fast.
I remember just barely beating him the first time we raced and then never again after that. The kid sprinted the entire way, from our house, past maybe 7 others, until he reached the corner. I kept up with him as he sprinted, expertly balancing stepping on the gas and coasting so as to keep the race close. I always had my window down, yelling to him through the passenger-side window, "Go, Cal, go!" and "Great job, Cal Daniel!" And I always ended it with, "I love you!" and then something about having a good day before turning on the next stretch of road to officially make my way to the train. Early on, he asked me to wave out my window as I did so; so I made sure to do that every time thereafter.
Sometimes he'd announce, "I beat you, Mommy!" to which I'd respond, "yes, you did, Baby." I wonder if he knows how ridiculous this match-up is.
I remember always looking in my rearview mirror to see him still standing on the corner, watching me speed off and waving to me. This would both warm and break my heart. I love that kid. Early in this routine, I wondered what he was thinking at that time -- was he genuinely content or was he sad that I was leaving him behind so I could go to work for what he knew would be yet another long day that had the potential of ending past his bedtime?
After the first week, the novelty of it wore off... for me. It took time to participate in this race, even as good as Cal was at being ready and timing his exit with me to do it. Anyone who knows me knows that my trips to the train are perfectly timed given good conditions where traffic is such that I can speed and most stoplights are green when I hit them; when conditions aren't good, my commute is nothing short of stressful. This race really made my commute worse -- instead of doing 35 to the corner, I had to do 3. It probably cost me a minute and felt like ten.
But Cal didn't know the difference. He was excited every time he headed out to race and almost always smiled at the finish. Of course, he won most races. He was like South Africa's Oscar Pistorius before his downfall. Or better yet, Jamaica's Usain Bolt, who's downfall has yet to happen. I wonder if I had beaten him more often if he'd have wanted to bail on this daily event. I'm certain that thought crossed my mind the further we got into October; but I never entertained it. It made him too happy.
And then Ella wanted to participate.
Ella's wanting to participate made this morning race 10 times worse than it already was. When Ella joined in is when the stress heightened significantly and yelling and the tears became common. When Ella joined, fairness became a factor. When Ella joined, no one enjoyed this race. That we continued it for a few weeks cannot be explained. That we eventually reached a point where both kids were smiling at the corner as I made my turn is entirely attributable to my figuring out how to make it good.
They started on the same side of the street, Cal on foot, Ella on her bike, me in my car. I honestly don't recall how the first few of these races went, and that might be explainable by them being so terrible that I've blocked them out of my memory. I just remember Cal being upset, feeling slighted by my not going faster; Ella being outwardly distraught that she kept coming in third; and me being stressed, sad and unable to please anyone, including myself. Every morning. The Leatherkids are exceptional at expressing their feelings, especially their displeasure and their hurt.
Somehow, we evolved to Cal jumping on his bike on the sidewalk across the street, Ella using her scooter on our side of the street and me, of course, in the car actually on the street. I would "keep up with" Cal for the first half of our race, encouraging him with "go, Cal, go!" as I did so. I'd then look in my rearview mirror to see Ella striding away on that scooter, sometimes tearful, other times determined. I'd then lay off the gas to let her catch me. "C'mon, Ellie! Yea, Ellie!" I'd cheer, letting her finish second. And all the while I was thinking about all the laws I'd have to break to actually catch my train.
All he wanted to do was finish first, and all she wanted to do was be a part of it and finish second. When I figured that out, surviving these races became just a matter of me ensuring that happened and suppressing any anxiety about the slowness of it all as I did so. It was rarely fun. Had I left earlier, it could have been fun. But I just... couldn't. I think most train commuters would agree that breaking a long-established morning train-catching routine is virtually impossible. Even if I had overcome that and left earlier, I don't know that it would've been fun. There was something painful about seeing them in my rearview mirror, so innocently standing on the corner and watching me drive away. I'm not really even sure why. We always exchanged "I love you's" before I turned the corner to speed away, and I always waved as I did so. And I never worried about them making it back home safely. Not once. But it still hurt.
Since we stopped racing sometime in November, Cal has asked to race me a couple of times. I've used the excuse that it's too cold, which it really isn't, and he accepts it without a fight. Our morning routine has changed since early February -- the Leatherkids are doing the before-school program at the Y -- so racing is really out of the question. That may answer my question about which is more surprising, the weather or no racing -- our unseasonably, in-the-60s warm February must be.
So mine and Cal's (and eventually Ella's) morning races to the corner might now be a fond memory among many others. As much as he seemed to enjoy it, I'd put money on Cal challenging me again in the future, though; and I'd put money on him winning the race. And I doubt it'll be fun. But it's a simple thing I can do to make him smile, so I'm sure I'll do it... as long as it's not too cold out.
