Updated: December 18, 2015
Originally Published: June 6, 2015
On the crisp morning of October 13, 2002, I stood at the starting line of my very first marathon. Under different circumstances, the absence of my monthly visitor might have worried me; however, I felt a wave of relief knowing I wouldn’t have to deal with it while conquering 26.2 miles through Chicago. After all, I wasn’t even late. But deep down, I sensed something significant was unfolding.
A week later, when I realized I was officially late, a pregnancy test confirmed my hunch: I had completed my first marathon while pregnant. I crossed that finish line with my unborn son already by my side.
Because my first marathon and pregnancy were intertwined, many asked if I would buy a jogging stroller once the baby arrived. I did, becoming one of those moms who juggle training and toddlers. When my second son arrived two years later, I upgraded to a double jogging stroller.
The jogging stroller primarily served to preserve my sanity. The long days confined with infants and then toddlers felt endless, especially when my eldest stopped napping at just two. Heading out for a mid-afternoon run—often followed by a visit to the park—broke the monotony and allowed me to continue training for marathons. More importantly, I hoped to instill in my boys the importance of being active and appreciating nature. I wanted them to see their mother as a strong woman capable of being fast, determined, and a little dirty. Maybe they’d even become runners themselves; who could tell?
Preparing for a run was undeniably a task. Sometimes it took longer to get everyone ready than it did to run a simple four or five miles, especially during winter when jackets, blankets, hats, and mittens were necessary. Water bottles and snacks had to be packed, stuffed animals gathered, and board books stashed under the stroller. Yet these moments were also the sweetest; we chatted about pets, trains, and their favorite cartoon characters, while sometimes I simply listened to their chatter. Of course, there were moments of frustration when they fought or when I had to backtrack for a water cup tossed from the stroller for the third time. Nonetheless, these little annoyances paled in comparison to the frustration of not running, and I took pride in being known in the neighborhood as “That Lady With the Jogging Stroller.”
On weekends, when my partner was home, I ran solo. I connected with an online community of fellow runners navigating the challenges of raising young children. Many of us ran with strollers, joking that running alone felt like a brief escape from family obligations. Though I could never truly run away—especially with one child relying on me for nourishment—those solo runs felt liberating. Without the stroller’s weight and the clutter of a busy home, I felt as if I could fly along the streets, returning home refreshed after a couple of hours of solitude.
Eventually, I retired the jogging stroller when my older son turned six and my younger one was nearly four. By then, we had moved to a new state, to a house perched atop a hill. I bravely ran downhill each day, pushing my youngest to pick up his brother from kindergarten, only to struggle back up the steep incline with 70 pounds of kids plus the stroller.
Saying goodbye to that stroller was bittersweet; it marked the end of a unique chapter in my life as both a runner and a parent. While there was relief in parting with it, there was also a sense of loss knowing my boys would never again be small enough to sit side-by-side in it for miles.
The following years saw me running solo. I snuck in runs during school hours or hopped on the treadmill while my kids watched TV. My boys are now 9 and 11, and a few years ago, they started joining my husband and me for our favorite 10k, the Wharf to Wharf race from Santa Cruz to Capitola, California. We didn’t focus on time or push them to compete; our goal was simply to enjoy family time together.
My eldest discovered a talent for running and joined his school’s cross-country and track teams. Last year, at just 10, he partnered with me for a local Mother’s Day run, where we won the mother-son title in the two-mile race. Surprisingly, my younger son, who never seemed to embrace running, joined cross-country this year as a third grader and made it to the city championships.
This year, my older son and I decided to race in the Mother’s Day two-miler again to defend our title. Despite having skipped the Turkey Trot earlier, my younger son expressed interest in joining us. Negotiations over our team composition ensued, as mothers could only race with one child. Ultimately, I decided to team up with my eldest again (we had a title to defend!) but assured my younger son that if we won and his time was faster than his brother’s, he could keep the trophy. Fairness was key.
On race day, we arrived at the park as a united family. Embracing the spirit of Mother’s Day, my boys accessorized their outfits with neon pink tube socks, insisting they were ready. My 9-year-old voiced his concern about possibly getting separated, to which we reminded him to “follow the leaders” and “stay on the trail.” We stressed that the race was about doing their best, not just winning.
As the starting gun fired, an unexpected twist unfolded. My boys surged ahead, not stopping for me. Allergies were making my lungs burn, so I resolved to let them race on, accepting that perhaps winning the mother-son competition wasn’t in the cards. I shifted my focus to simply finishing; two miles shouldn’t be daunting.
Ahead of me, I watched my sons stride confidently—my younger son just behind his brother. In their strong, unified movements, I saw not the unsteady toddlers they once were but the young men they are becoming. Even when they turned a corner and vanished from sight, I caught glimpses of their pink socks flitting down the trail. I turned my attention to the sky, the trees, and the music in my earbuds, as focusing on those four pink legs together stirred up emotions I wasn’t ready to face.
Years ago, when I learned that I was having a second son, I shed tears—not from disappointment, but from knowing this would likely be my last child, closing the door on ever raising a daughter. In that moment, I recalled the opening credits of Jack & Bobby, a show about two brothers who competed and supported each other. I realized then that this would be my life, and it would be a great one.
This Mother’s Day weekend, for the first time, both my sons outran me. I was no longer the one running alongside them or away from them; instead, I was chasing them. I struggled to finish close behind, but my older son and I managed to win the mother-son team trophy, and everyone received age group awards. Yet the true victory belonged to my children as they outpaced their mom.
As my boys approach their teenage years, their fastest running days lie ahead. With solid coaching, a supportive running community, and the same determination I had while pushing that jogging stroller, I’m not too shabby myself. However, I know I won’t be able to match their pace for long. Soon, they’ll complete races minutes ahead of me. While a part of me thinks my pride should take a hit, I am genuinely thrilled. This is how it should be: in both racing and life, they are running ahead of me. My hope is that I have equipped them with the skills to move forward with strength and confidence.
In Summary
The journey of motherhood intertwined with running has been both challenging and rewarding. From the early days of jogging strollers to watching my sons discover their running potential, every moment has shaped our family dynamic. As they continue to sprint ahead, I take pride in the values I hope to have instilled in them.
Keyphrase: Watching My Boys Sprint Ahead of Me
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