Who carries who?

Yesterday the rain was coming down in buckets. I was scheduled for a forty-five minute run but questioned the rationality of stepping into the storm. Never-the-less I laced my shoes and dressed myself lightly, knowing that I was going to get soaked. Then I prepared my coach. I changed his diaper and zipped him into his one piece winter suit before buckling him into his seat in the jogging stroller. I pulled the rain cover over the top and peeked through the crack to make sure that he was comfortable. He peered back at me knowing what was to come. Many times over the past few months we have gone through this routine. Together we stepped into the rain.

Between the drumming of the drops on the cover and the vibration of the wheels, Liam was soon asleep. Within ten minutes my shirt was plastered to my chest, and I began to feel my socks squishing in my shoes. We turned onto Lancaster and began the three quarter of a mile climb. On flat ground I can usually control the stroller with one hand as it is not hard to push once it has gained momentum. However on the hills I need to use two arms and to bear down on each stride forward. That was the way the next half an hour went: up and down, up and down the hills of our neighborhood with quads burning. I pushed him, but he pushed me.

He pushed me to drive each leg harder and raise the tempo. As we neared home, my legs were beginning to flag. We approached a cross street where a driver waited to turn on to the main avenue. The mini-van let us pass and then pulled out next to us. The mustached man, a paragon of fatherhood himself in his Honda Odyssey, had rolled down the window. He called out to me supportively, “Way to go, Dad!” before speeding away. I must have looked like I was suffering a bit, pushing the stroller in the rain. Little did he realize that at that point my son was carrying me.

Accomplished ultra-marathoner Dean Karnazes has noted the following thing about feats of extreme endurance: you run the first half with your legs and the last half with your heart. At that point in time my muscles were spent. The hills had cooked whatever spark they had when I started. I was running with my heart. As simple and cliché as it sounds, if someone were to ask me why I was running, my answer would have been, “For my son.” But that answer would be as devoid of pop as my legs in that moment. As for the question of who carried who at that point in time, I would have to say that Liam was carrying me more than I was carrying him.