The Footrace

I was used to winning.
I was a kid, and kids always beat adults in races. As a grown-up now, a parent even, I understand the whole thing completely now. Well, just about, anyway. But then, I had only the familiarity of the sensation of winning. I knew what it was like to pull away from the others from the very beginning of the footrace and stay ahead until past the finish line. Anyway, kids always beat their parents when they race.

Then came this summer's day when I was probably 5 or 6 or so. That would make it about 1967 or 8 … maybe even 69. I remember that the road winding past our house was still a dirt road, and that Miss Brown's House was still habitable; probably even still occupied by Miss Brown. We hadn't yet built the split rail fences that would run along between the road and the pastures. It must have been high summer, because I can recall the grass along the roadside was very long. I have images of goldenrod, clover and tall timothy, but these are probably superimposed from various summer memories. Even if the images are borrowed, they still fit the scene.

Mom and I had just stepped off the lawn and were headed down the road to Miss Brown's. I have no recollection exactly where we were going or why we were going there. It must not have been any serious business, however. Near the top of the little hill that led down to the tiny white house, I challenged Mom to a race. She took me up on it immediately, and we took our marks in the dirt, I on the right and she on the left along the roadside. She counted 1, 2, 3, and then I jumped off my mark and tore off as fast as I could go, smiling from ear to ear.

By the time I hit my top speed, I expected to hear Mom's strides fading away behind me, but to my absolute astonishment, she was right beside me. I dug even deeper, finding it bizarre to have to try so hard to beat my mother [for Pete's sake!] in a footrace. And to make the insult all the sharper, she was laughing at my shock and dismay. Despite my Herculean effort, I watched in complete disbelief as my mother started to pull away from me, leaving me literally in the dust.

She beat me by several seconds, even though I had put everything I had into it. She laughed again as I caught up, and she characteristically didn't try to rub it in. She just roughed my head and we continued on to wherever we were going. She never mentioned it, but I thought a lot about that race. It was one of the earliest times I recall seeing Mom in a completely different light. She was obviously not the fool I had taken her for, but neither did she gloat about her victory. Then I began to wonder how I had won previous races … did she suddenly perfect her running? I knew I hadn't gotten slower. . . .

If it had happened later, I might have identified the event as a failing in myself. But at that time, I remember seeing it as an elevation of Mom. It raised her in my esteem beyond being a patsy for her children, always forced to take last place. She did have desires and, should she want to satisfy them, was perfectly capable of achieving them. I was too young to evaluate the deeper philosophical implications of it all, but I certainly took her much more seriously after that. I was also careful not to challenge her to another footrace.