Friday, August 17, 2007

Kid’s Triathlon

I’ve poured 376 plastic cups half full of water, arranged on my table in the outfield sun at Potowatomi Park.  I’m volunteering as the water station guy for the 7th annual Kids Triathlon, and in a few minutes some five hundred kids ages 5 to 14 are going to run by in need of hydration.  Across the field, park staff whir around in golf carts as the race director’s megaphone echoes final instructions to kids.  Then the opening trumpet from the Rocky theme song blares out and the first little athletes splash into the water.

I practice my handoff technique: balancing the cups on my upturned palm, then hanging down from my fingers.  The next thing I know a police motorcycle with lights and siren is bumping across the field escorting the first runner toward me.  It’s a six year old girl, with her mother jogging beside her.  How nice.  I hold out my water cup carefully, down low so she can reach it, smile and yell, “Water!  Get your water!” The red-faced girl is struggling and veers toward me.  But just as she reaches out for my cup her mother grabs her wrist and pulls her back yelling, “No, she doesn’t need any water,” and drags the girl right past my table.

I’m still holding the cup in midair when the next kid, a boy, runs toward me holding his side.  His dad is a big bull-necked guy with a blonde crewcut and a camcorder stuck to one eye.  “Water!” I yell.  The boy swerves toward my table but dad blocks him out with a linebacker move.  “Come on!” he yells to the son, “Dig deep!” Over and over, the same thing:  “Not yet honey!” and “Don’t stop!” and “Remember, this is a sprint!”

Some kids don’t have parents with them.  A chubby kid limps up to the table gasping.  “Water?” I ask.  He bobs his head up and down and reaches out with both hands, coming to a dead stop while he drinks.  I expect a parent to come screaming out of the bushes.  “Nice race,” I say, “you’re almost home.” He plods off just as a pack of boys descend like coyotes, tumbling right into each other to grab cups off the table.

The minutes pass, the age groups get older and the kids grow taller.  A black girl with muscular legs lopes past easily, like she’s not stopping until she reaches Colorado.  A redhead girl with a mesh runner’s cap and that blank energy-conserving face you see on marathoners and desert lizards approaches at full tempo pace.  She grabs my cup, pinches the top, sips once, pours the rest on her head, flings the cup aside and strides off.  Wow.

Most the kids have passed when I start picking up the empty cups strew on the grass.  And I almost didn’t see her.  A girl alone, no parent, no camcorder, laboring down the trampled white line in the grass toward my table.  Her long pigtails, still damp from the swim, slap at her shoulders as she runs.  She wears baggy shorts, worn-out shoes and the biggest smile I have seen all week.  She is just beaming.  Running her own race, and having fun.

I just about give her a hug but instead hold out two cups.  She slows down, and takes one.  ”Thank you”, she says, and takes a sip.  “Mmm,” she says, “that’s so good.” “Great race,” I say.  She takes a big breath, and says, “Well, gotta go, bye!” then heads back out.  As she passes the cardboard trash box she slows, and carefully drops her cup inside.

I watch until she disappears, then raise my other cup high in her direction.  The girl didn’t get first place.  But in the real endurance race, that lies ahead?  She’ll be unstoppable.

Broadcast by Jeff Nixa on August 17, 2007
Customs & Rituals • Nature & Outdoors • Sports & Recreation • Permalink • Printer Friendly
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