Run, Granny, run
Lori Borgman | Monday, Sept. 20, 2010
There are only so many cracks a woman can take about her age before she seeks
revenge.
In recent years, when I roller blade with my twenty-something
daughters, they surge ahead, look over their shoulders and yell, "Keep up."
When we bike together, I hear, "Is that as fast as you can go?"
To add insult to injury, I just read a little book called, "Pat the
Puppy," to our newborn twin grandbabies. The children in the book must help
their feeble-looking granny undo the Velcro tabs on her shoes after she has gone
jogging.
I told the grandbabies that if a grandma is wearing Velcro shoes, she
has no business running. They agreed with me, which they signaled by rolling
their eyes to the back of their heads. Of course, they do that a lot because
they're only a few weeks old.
That evening, my daughter suggested the two of us walk to the high
school track for some exercise.
"Sure," I said. "Just let me find my shoes with the Velcro tabs."
We finished walking one lap and were into the second when I said, "I
hope you don't mind, but I'm going to leave you in my dust." I liked the sound
of that. It was like old times. I was once again taking the lead. It was the
world as it should be.
Sure, she'd just delivered twins by C-section, was on physical
restriction and hadn't run for months, but if it was the only way to assert
myself as the matriarch, I was willing to do it.
I took off and she shouted, "Run, Forrest, run!"
That did it. I would lap her if it was the last thing I did. I ran
faster and saw an opening. We were at the 9 o'clock and 3 o'clock positions on
the track when she began texting. I could cut across the football field while
her head was down, slice the distance in half, casually lap her and she'd never
know where my newfound speed came from.
The field was green, soft and spongy. Even though it was a Tuesday
evening, I imagined a Friday night. The crowd was going wild. A marching band
was banging drums and cheerleaders were waving pom-poms. I jumped back on the
track just as she turned around to look for me. She seemed surprised.
I smiled and blew past her.
To which she yelled, "Faster."
With that snipe, any misgivings about the deceitfulness of what I had
just done completely disappeared.
Soon we were on opposite sides of the track again. I hesitated. Was it
right to lap a post-partum new mother and possibly cause her to doubt her own
physical strength in light of her aging mother's?
Absolutely.
I sprinted across the field again. My heart pounded, my legs ached, my
side cramped and my lungs were on fire. I pushed myself harder and harder,
running five times as fast across the field as I had on the track. By the time I
jumped back on the track behind her, I was gasping for air and wheezing.
My last wish was to see the surprised look on her face before I blacked
out and completely disgraced myself.
I staggered past her, gasping, limping, my lungs burning, my chest
heaving. She said, "Good job, mom."
It was time to clear the air. I gasped for air and managed to
whisper, "Yeah, still got it."
