Many years ago I ran a 5K race with my then 11 year old son. At least I thought I was running it with my son. It was a large, local event. We knew lots of people there, including, I'm sure, many of you, my readers. We had thought it was a parent/child type event, but it turned out that there were only like 3 adults in the race. I ran anyway, wanting the shirt. Once the gun went off, my son took off like a sprinter, leaving me behind amongst a mass of children. Languishing behind, and seeing my son disappear farther and farther into the horizon, I knew I had two choices: One, I could try to catch my son, and possibly vomit. (I saw one of my friends' dad vomit when I was in college and that still has an effect on me.) I really didn't want to be known as "the dad who vomited in front of us trying to beat the 10 year olds". Secondly, I could drop out of the race. Well, as you, my readers, know, I'm no quitter. So I continued to run, falling further and further back of my son. The sun began to set. It was then that I thought of the third option. Why not pretend one of these slower kids was mine? So I proudly ran the last two miles amongst a pack of children that I've not seen since.
I haven't run any more races with my son, but I still have that shirt.
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