| I ran the San Diego Rock and Roll Marathon. I ran it | | | | Her. That was there too. We ran. |
| with my newly adult son, 18. I ran it because prom night | | | | We called people on my cell phone. Actually I called |
| was the night before and he didn't attend, didn't take a | | | | them, made them say Happy Birthday to my son. He |
| girl, didn't take a boy. I live in So Cal, but my town | | | | held the phone, looked frustrated, tired, but he talked, |
| grows red, grows conservative children, and my son | | | | made jokes, made small talk, just ran. We ran. |
| isn't entirely welcome. He skipped prom, chose to stay | | | | And at mile 18 I wondered what the hell I was doing. I |
| home, and when I understood this, I paid one hundred | | | | wondered exactly what the hell I was doing. It's mile 18, |
| twenty dollars each for our privilege of pain. Might as | | | | I said! I said it bright, blonde hardwood bright, smiled, |
| well use our feet, our legs, while your friends are | | | | grabbed his arm to slow us to a walk, pointed at the |
| sleeping off hangovers, I said. He didn't agree. He didn't | | | | mile marker, the time bar, held my palm out for a high |
| disagree. We ran. | | | | five, said it again: Hey! It's Mile 18! And you are 18 today! |
| I pinned my number to my shirt at 3:30 am. My son | | | | This is your mile! He rolled his eyes, didn't answer me, |
| pinned his one minute before race start. I drank two | | | | didn't do anything but walk. We walked. |
| cups of yellow gatorade, downed three cups of water | | | | Somewhere around mile 22 I hit my wall. I realized I |
| and one half a sesame bagel one hour before race | | | | pulled my son into some ritual he didn't understand. This |
| start. My son bummed a sip of my water. I stretched | | | | was my role playing game, my recreation of childbirth, |
| hamstrings, quads, calves. I meditated. I centered my | | | | my personal sweat lodge moment, and I confused it |
| thoughts, my mind, spread my spiritual essence upon | | | | with celebration, with a rite of passage he wasn't |
| the blacktop before the race. My son stared into | | | | ready to make. But then it was too late. We ran. We |
| space, didn't acknowledge my nutrition, my plan, my | | | | walked. We didn't talk. |
| being. We ran. | | | | And then we passed the marker for Mile 24. Two |
| One mile, two miles, three. We ran. We didn't speak. I | | | | miles to go, two miles to cross the line, get off this |
| was nervous. I never ran this far in my life. My son | | | | crazy train, tend our blisters and our sanity. But |
| was frustrated. He didn't say No before the race. He | | | | something funny happened. We ran, our feet slapping |
| didn't think to drop out, to tell me No, to tell me Forget It | | | | ground between strides, a shuffle dance, slow and |
| Man, to leave me with my PowerBars and extra | | | | deliberate and pathetic. And a woman passed us, a |
| safety pins at the gate. He stood next to me. We ran. | | | | women gray as granite, short, stooped, heavy, |
| He turned 18 that morning. I remember his birth. I | | | | sixty-five if she was a day, and she scooted a white |
| remember I wasn't much older than he is now. I | | | | cane in front of her, the thin echo cane of the blind, and |
| remember my African American midwife with the | | | | she wore a T-shirt emblazoned with Caution! Blind |
| tie-dye smock, the way my water broke at K-Mart | | | | Runner! And we laughed. Hell, we laughed. We hugged |
| and my husband wouldn't take me to my birthing room | | | | each other and laughed at our turtle pace, at the old |
| until he bought his stuff. I remember my son's first best | | | | fat blind woman passing us, at all the old weird |
| friend and his loneliness. I remember the way he hated | | | | incapacitated people passing us left and right, and we |
| school and the way he loved me. I remember his | | | | stopped, grabbed our stomachs, somehow |
| favorite foods and his first word. I don't think he | | | | reconnected as mother-son unit. Somehow found |
| thought about these things Sunday morning. I don't think | | | | enough tempo to beat our final notes, to cross the line |
| he thought anything but My Mom Is A Fricken Nut. I | | | | holding hands, to grab our medals and pose. |
| could read his mind. I could pull that thought into my field | | | | Three days later I hear my son talk to his friends on |
| of view, hold it in front of those fifteen thousand | | | | the phone. Yeah, I ran a marathon this weekend, he |
| runners like an airplane banner. Nut. Freak. But I Love | | | | says. Yeah. I ran with my mom. |