After 45 minutes of nervousness and coldness, they started to line up the kids according to age groups. Lori positioned herself for the take-off picture, and I tried to encourage: “The important thing with long-distance races, is that you do it, and that you finish, it doesn’t really matter who wins.” To which Kennedy replied, “No, it’s about who wins.” I laughed, and put my arm around her knowing that she’s every ounce my sister. My Dad demanded her attention with “Make sure you pace yourself, and push yourself. Now give me your jacket,” as he took off running toward the first curve of the trail. She nodded, in a daze, I could tell she was trying to focus on not letting her nerves show.
The race began with a few shed tears from Lori, “Woot Woot!” screams from Griffin (my 5 year old little brother) and me, and even though I couldn’t see him, I knew that my Dad cut every corner to watch her closely the whole time… It was as if parts of my Grandfather completely overtook him, and there was an underlying pang in all of us, wishing that he was still here to see her.
She did famously. Completing the mile in 8:38, in 16th place overall, and the 2nd place girl in her age group. We were all relieved, and exuding pride from every pore. Kennedy was initially thankful for her placement, and after that wore off she became saddened by being so close to a trophy (the first boy and girl in every age group got a trophy) because everyone in my family is intensely competitive and severely dislikes losing. Regardless, we went out to breakfast to celebrate and then came back to our warm house and retreated to our different corners.
These are the days that will eventually become perfect. When we look back, there won’t be a recollection that my arms got tired from holding Griffin for so long, that we argued about which breakfast place to go to, that Kennedy plugged her nose while she ate her egg sandwich because she didn’t like it, that Griffin spilled his hot chocolate, and we were all tired, still wet and freezing, and ready to go home. Instead it will morph into a time where no one was fighting, and everyone laughed while enjoying their food, and we’ll have the pictures as proof that we smiled despite the rain because we were together. Our memories are the skeletons of our moments, because the flesh of small discomforts and organs of little annoyances disintegrate with time. And I’m already feeling nostalgia for the time when Kennedy was only 9, ran her first race through the drizzle and the mud while we all watched and cheered, ending with a charming family breakfast.
