Jul 13, 2007

Running on empty

By Malcolm Fleschner / Humor Columnist

This fall my daughter Marisol will be entering kindergarten and, like most parents, I have a number of concerns: Will she fit in? Is she ready for a structured classroom setting? Do they still use reconstituted shavings from classroom pencil sharpeners to make that "salisbury steak" they serve for lunch? Do classrooms even have pencil sharpeners any more?

But my biggest concern about her transition to public schooling is what will happen when Marisol, after engaging in a competitive activity with classmates, first discovers that she doesn't always get to win at everything. This will represent a stark contrast to the situation in our household, where the outcome of any contest with Marisol involves about as much suspense as a North Korean presidential election.

I remember reading somewhere that always playing to win, even against children, is one of the key warning signs of an overly aggressive personality, and can be an indicator of a higher risk for heart attack. So I decided to let my daughter win at everything, even though losing so much as a simple game of tick-tack-toe can send me into a screaming, expletive-laden, wall-punching rage. Hey, your health comes first, right?

More frequently, however, our contests are simple footraces. Every chance she gets, Marisol challenges me to a running race, whether to the corner mailbox, from the car to the front door or to wherever I've hidden her birthday presents (she's sneaky that way). Her delight at racing me is understandable - I'd probably enjoy a great number of competitive activities far more if I always knew ahead of time that I was going to win ("Hey Tyson, you ready to step back in the ring for another pummeling? What are you, chicken?").

The only problem arises when I try to make one of our races close. Seeing me nipping at her heels, Marisol will stop abruptly, turn and yell at me that I'm not playing right. Only after I again give her the standard 10-yard cushion will she agree to resume the race and continue on to her inevitable triumph. (Little known historical fact: this tactic was also the key to Jesse Owens' Olympic victories).

Now that she has become the father-daughter racing version of the Harlem Globetrotters to my Washington Generals, Marisol has concluded that she is simply a faster runner than her old man. She's not shy about sharing this piece of information, either, whether with her grandparents, preschool teachers, people she calls by randomly pressing buttons on the phone, etc. Meanwhile, I would explain that I lost the race on purpose, except I'm too preoccupied with catching my breath, hyperventilating, or coughing up bits of lung on the sidewalk.

This past Fourth of July weekend I didn't help my case any by entering an actual five-mile road race. I've made competing in this particular race a tradition I participate in every few years, whenever I feel the need to prove to myself that I've still got it. "It," in this case, being a knee injury I sustained during college while playing a particularly intense (read: drunken) game of miniature golf.

Unlike most of the folks who enter these organized races, I am not a typical runner in the sense that I follow no set training regimen, don't subscribe to any running magazines, and often get winded when attempting to deploy my La-Z-Boy recliner. These mitigating factors aside, I still get psyched for this race, hoping to continue my unblemished record of beating every other entrant in my age group (here "my age group" is defined as consisting of anyone born on my exact birth date). But mostly I'm motivated by the knowledge that I'm really only competing against myself, which is a good thing, since lord knows I have little chance of beating anyone else.

My problem this year was that for the first time my daughter was participating in the kids' "Fun Run" that takes place immediately following the regular race. So after stumbling, breathless, across the finish line to where my wife was waiting with my requisite oxygen mask and defibrillator, I had to immediately turn around to escort Marisol along the 1.4-mile course of the kids' race.

"Now Sweetie," I tried to yell to her as she raced ahead, "you don't have to run the whole time. If you want, you can stop and walk for a while. Or even sit down. Right now, for example."

She didn't take the bait, so I wound up, for the first time, genuinely struggling to keep up in a footrace with my 4-year-old child. Despite my humiliation, and even though the experience merely confirmed Marisol's assessment of her slow-footed father, the race was a fun bonding experience that I won't soon forget. At least not as long as my knee keeps throbbing, anyway.

Readers wishing to share their thoughts on Malcolm's running commentary (ha!) should direct all e-mails to Malcolm@CultureShlock.com.