“I just want you to be happy.” How often have we heard this line from our parents?
My mother trained us to be runners from the time we were born. At first she would wheel us out in the oversize baby buggy, pushing my brothers and I over the gentle hills of our west Ottawa neighbourhood, our chubby little feet kicking as we snuggled together, lulled by the rhythm of her steps. By the time I turned five, I had been relegated to biking beside her, something I enjoyed more than I ever admitted to.
Soon, I reached grade 3 and I became eligible to compete in cross-country. My mom was thrilled. Finally, the first of her running experiments, able to show off what she had learned. We began to “train” outside of school–something I despised with a passion as an eight year old. To this day I still remember pulling out every single manipulation trick I had, in my efforts to get out of “training”. Crying, screaming, begging–I did it all. But if there’s anything my mom isn’t, it’s a quitter. We trained once a week regardless and I ended up doing alright in my first cross-country race.
By grade 5, I had begun to view participating in cross-country as more than just a fun run. I had genetically received a healthy dose of my parents’ competitive natures and that year, I was determined to win. I remember seeing my mom at the start gate, handing off my warm clothing in return for a quick cheek kiss and a “good luck”.
The start gate was always the part I liked the least about cross-country. I hated being squished in with other girls, elbows braced against elbows and knees touching knees like horses in a trailer. Then, the gun. The cockroaches in my stomach would be crawling up my throat by the time the man with the starter pistol walked out. The sharp crack always made me feel a bit like cattle being herded. Regardless, the race would then begin and two hundred or so girls would flood across the start line, lean legs pumping.
Every race went more or less the same way. After the first half, I would want to to stop, my legs sore and my lungs busy. The only thing that would keep me going was the sound of the girls behind me pulling air into their lungs and the squishy sound of their running shoes sinking into the mud. The sound of heavy breathing and the fear of losing, of being inadequate, would propel me forward. Often, I would repeat things to myself, little mantras that made me feel better.
My mom would always pick two spots to cheer us on. One was about a third into the race. The other was always in the final stretch. I can picture it now. My 10 year old self, my skinny legs pumping like pistons, as my mom ran beside me in her work heels and trench coat, yelling.
“Go Maddy! Push! Push baby push! Almost there! Almost done!”
It’s an image that will always stay with me. Cross-country wasn’t cross-country if my mom wasn’t standing near the finish line, heels splattered with mud, lipstick smudged, yelling until her voice got raspy.
On that crisp day in October, I placed third out of two hundred 10 year old girls. That was the best result I would ever achieve in cross-country. Year after year, I would continue participating until my finishes became slightly less majestic, diminishing to the top ten, then the top twenty, then finally to one of the top 40 girls in the race. To my mom’s disappointment, I quit cross-country when I was in grade ten. However, I continued to run small, non-competitive races.
By the winter of grade 11, I was about 15 pounds heavier than I was in grade 10. It was a difficult adjustment. I wasn’t running as much and stressful events had lead me to binge-eating as a coping mechanism. On some days, I would look in the mirror and hate myself. Others, I would convince myself that I didn’t look that different from my lean grade ten self. It was a losing battle, devastating for both my mom and I.
For my mom, my weight gain and lack of interest in running represented how unhappy I had become. I interpreted that as shame. For months, I turned down her offers of going for a run together, convinced that she was embarrassed by me and that she wanted to change me. Every one of her glances at my heaping dinner plate would feel like a slap in the face.
It took me awhile to realize what my mom was really trying to do. My binging continued to escalate until the night she discovered my treasure trove of wrappers and empty food boxes, stashed in my closet. I struggle to remember a time in which I have felt more alienated from my mother. I accused my mom of being embarrassed of me. Tears, screaming, and slammed doors ensued. Later that night, after the chaos had subsided, she came up to my room to talk. She apologized and told me her own story.
When my mom was 30, one of her best friends died after a long battle with cancer. Having just given birth to me, my mom found herself in a dark place. Dealing with the fragility of life and grief while trying to take care of a newborn is no easy task. Running was the way that my mom found solace. It was constant in her life when she felt that there was very little else that was. By the end of our conversation, I learned that it’s hard to fault your parents for loving you.
This September, I ran my first half-marathon. It took some tears, some pain, and a lot of determination, but I chose to make it to that finish line. There at the very end, at a point around the last 200 meters, stood my mom. She was wearing her work heels, and her lipstick was smeared but I have never been more glad to see someone. To the rhythm of my mom’s cheers, I crossed the finish line. I guess that never quitting does run in the family.
One blonde One blog 