Not long ago, my daughter came home and handed me a form with
information about a 10-kilometer walk-a-thon to raise money for a
worthy cause.
Not long ago, my daughter came home and handed me a form with information about a 10-kilometer walk-a-thon to raise money for a worthy cause.
“Can we do it, Mom?” she asked hopefully. I eyed her suspiciously. Often, these days, if my daughter mentions 10 kilometers or miles, it’s the distance ahead of her that I should be walking. But my young teen seemed excited about the prospect of helping the community and getting some exercise, and to my relief, the fine print along the bottom of the note said, “Fully catered rest stops will be provided at frequent intervals along the route.”
I pictured my daughter and myself sharing quality time together, raising money for a good cause, while being served gourmet food as we sat in lounge chairs sipping cool drinks underneath shade umbrellas.
“Of course,” I said.
We wanted to be in top shape, so a week before the marathon my daughter and I trained for the walk. While she practiced stretching exercises and increasing her stamina, I practiced ordering hors d’oeuvres in French.
The next morning, when we reached the registration line, I handed the attendant our form.
“I’m so excited to be able to raise money for a good cause,” I said.
She nodded knowingly. “The first rest stop is after the 3k marker. Good luck.”
The first few kilometers passed without much effort because especially in my early days of mothering, I had been an avid runner, mostly because I had to run from my preschoolers while talking on the phone. But by the third kilometer, my feet started to hurt. I pictured waiters carrying trays of international cuisine, and I sped up, hoping there would be enough lounge chairs.
When we finally reached it there was nothing but a man wearing an official-looking vest handing out water in paper cups.
“Excuse me,” I said, “Where are all the waiters – and the catered cuisine and music?” The man looked confused. “Food is served at the seven kilometer mark and the finishing line,” he said. Then he handed me a cup of water.
I popped a breath mint in my mouth and figured I could hold out until then. My daughter and I sat down on the sidewalk and drank our water.
As soon as we continued to walk, my stomach began to growl, and I finished off the roll of breath mints. I wondered what would happen if I couldn’t make it, and imagining the spectacle of a news crew filming me either crawling over the finish line or being carted off the race on a stretcher, I forced myself to keep walking. When we finally reached the catered meal at the next rest stop, I hurried to the table to order my food.
“Chicken teriyaki over rice with vegetables in soy sauce,” I said.
The attendant nodded and handed me a plate containing one fat-free sugarless cookie, and two dry, chalk-flavored, diabetic energy bars with the texture of bark.
“Isn’t this fun, Mom?” my daughter said. I grunted, but enthusiastically.
We resumed the walk after we ate our snack. Around eight kilometers, I began seeing mirages of drive-through windows in the distance.
“We’re almost there!” my daughter cried as she ran toward the flags. When I finally caught up she threw her arms around me. “We did it, Mom!” The attendants gave us a high five and handed us each a half of a banana.
When I saw how proud my daughter looked, I realized taking part in a walk-a-thon was about more than eating catered food and raising money for a good cause. It had increased her confidence and raised her self-esteem. As we sat down to eat our bananas I knew, however briefly, that we had become invincible, empowered women.
I just wondered how we were going to get back to the car.
Debbie Farmer is a humorist and a mother holding down the fort in California, and the author of “Don’t Put Lipstick on the Cat.” You can reach her at
fa********@oa***************.com
.
