Setting: September 30, 2025 — The high school track at dusk, where Caleb went farther than he ever had before
We’d only been back to running for a week and a half, and my legs were already screaming with shin splints. I could barely string together more than one minute of jogging at a time, still relearning the rhythm after so much time away. Every stride felt like the beginning all over again. So when Caleb announced that evening that he wanted to run four miles, I hesitated.
The longest he’d ever gone was 2.5, the same distance we do each year in the Turkey Trot, which offers both a 2.5 mile run and a 4.4. Every year, he breezes through while I stumble along, gasping. Every year, he asks to do the longer race. And every year, I promise maybe next time we’ll do the longer one. This year, I finally signed us up for the 4.4-mile race at his behest, half out of hope, half out of faith that I’ll somehow get myself there. Caleb, it seems, is already ahead of me.
At the track, I told the boys to stick to their own lanes. Caleb set off right away, steady and sure. Holden trotted beside me for a bit before calling it quits around three-quarters of a mile, and I made it a mile and a half before surrendering to my shins. We ended up side by side on the bleachers, sharing a pair of AirPods and keeping half an eye on the track while Caleb kept circling, relentless.
Meanwhile, he never slowed. Lap after lap, he just kept going until, less than an hour later, he’d done it. Four miles. A steady 13-minute pace. His cheeks were pink, but his breathing was calm. He looked like he could have gone on forever.
On the way home, we swung through the Burger King drive-thru for post-run treats. At the kitchen table, Caleb sipped his slushie like it was nothing while Holden and I dug into sundaes. To him, the run was just another evening. To me — limping, tired, and so far behind — it was a revelation. He’d already reached the place I was still dreaming of, effortless in the very spot where I struggle with every step.
I thought I came back to running to prove something, to feel proud of myself the way I once did. But that night, watching him at the table, I realized the real gift wasn't in chasing my own pace, it was in watching him pull ahead, faster than I'll ever be, and knowing my pride in him outpaces anything I'll ever run.
This post is part of my One-Minute Memoir series — short reflections on small moments that still manage to say something big.
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