When 9-year-old Mackie and I began training for his first road race (and my first race in too many years), I jumped into the endeavor with both feet … and a contingency plan.
We would train together, a few nights a week. We would gradually work our way up to the 3,000-meter distance we’d have to run during the July 4 Walter Hunt Memorial Road Race.
Then, on the appointed day, we would start in Brewer, trot over to Bangor, and happily wave to the thousands of spectators who lined the course.
We’d finish together. We’d descend on the post-race refreshment table. We’d gorge ourselves on watermelon and oranges and drink cup after cup of water.
That was Plan A.
This was Plan B: I’d realize at some point during our training that Mackie was simply too fast for me, and that I wouldn’t be able to keep up with him. Then I’d hire one of my nephews to serve as a pinch runner. The pinch runner would accompany Mackie at his speedy pace, and I’d waddle across the bridge alone, several minutes behind.
And when I finally showed up at the finish line, I’d join Mackie and his pinch runner at the refreshment table, where I’d try to find some leftover watermelon rinds that the speedy runners hadn’t yet devoured.
Either way — whether Mackie showed an immediate aptitude for the sport or not — I was covered.
Or so I thought.
As it turned out, our plans swerved off course two weeks before the race.
Mackie came down with a flu bug, and ran a fever for a few days. Training was out of the question.
Then, with just a week of training left, I fell victim to a freak croquet injury (If, that is, you can call belting yourself in the foot with your own mallet a freak croquet injury). Either way, training was out of the question … again.
Which brought us — Mackie and me — to Friday, just two days before the race. A final training run — the longest in his brief running career — would tell me everything I needed to know.
If he proved too fast for me during this run, I’d skulk to the phone and plead for a pinch runner to accompany him during the race.
If not, we’d use Plan A, and run at whatever pace he wanted to run.
Halfway through our final training jog, Mackie looked over at me, breathing heavily.
He asked if we could stop and walk. Then we stopped and walked a few more times over the ensuing mile.
A pinch runner wouldn’t be necessary, it seemed. Mackie wouldn’t leave me behind during the race. Of that I was certain.
Upon our return home, I told Mackie’s mom, my girlfriend Karen, that we’d be just fine during the race.
‘He missed too much training,” I confided. “I told him that we could walk whenever he wanted during the race. I just want to make sure he had a good time.”
On race day, he did have a good time.
And me? Not so much.
The first indication of trouble came shortly after the one-mile mark, when we began crossing the bridge into Bangor.
This, I had thought, was the point Mackie would want to walk.
This, I had suspected, was about the point when I’d be good and ready for a short break of my own.
And this was when I finally learned that I had been soundly sand-bagged by my running partner.
“You know, Mackie, we can stop and walk whenever you want,” I said, gasping for breath.
Mackie glanced in my direction, then said the words that made the next 10 minutes sheer torture.
“I’ve made a decision,” he said, not panting nearly as heavily as I was.
“You have?’
“Yup. I’ve decided that I’m not going to walk at all. I’m only going to run or jog,” he said. “I think doing that would be a great accomplishment.”
It’s hard to argue with that logic.
Hard. But not impossible.
“Are you sure?” I wheezed, struggling to get the words out. “You … can … walk … if … you … want.”
“No,” he said. “I’m running.”
So run we did. Or, more precisely, run he did.
Twice (or maybe it was three times … I can’t really recall all of the gory details), I pleaded for Mackie to walk with me.
“I’m not walking,” he said. “But I’ll run in place beside you while you walk.”
And that’s exactly what he did.
As you might imagine, having a 9-year-old running in place beside you (within view of hundreds of race spectators) provides a very good incentive for a wheezing runner to get his lard moving again.
Eventually, after we trotted past Karen and thousands of parade-watchers, and as the finish line loomed, I decided my running partner would be OK on his own for a short time. I’d still be able to see him, after all, so I wouldn’t lose track of him in the post-race crowd.
“Go … ahead,” I panted. “Run … faster … if … you … want.”
Mackie glanced over at me, accelerated, and was gone.
A short time later, we reunited.
“I didn’t walk at all. I ran the whole way,” he said, grinning.
“I saw that,” I told him. “You did great.”
Then Mackie turned his attention toward the refreshment table. Oranges awaited. And watermelons. And bagels. And cup after cup of ice-cold water.
The hard work was over, to be sure. Mackie had completed his first road race.
But his race experience wasn’t over yet.
Not even close.
We were back on Plan A after all.
And we had some hard-earned refreshments to sample.
Penobscot Revival on tap
The Lower Penobscot Watershed Coalition will welcome visitors to the Bangor Waterfront on Saturday for the third annual Penobscot River Revival.
Billed as a celebration of the return to a healthy river, the revival will feature music, activities for kids, an art show and sale and many informational exhibits by outdoor and conservation groups.
The event will run from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m.
