I picked up Graham from his track workout yesterday. Naturally, he kept me waiting because he had “to hit a cooldown.” Readers, his “cooldown” is two miles and this after running ten four-hundred-meter sprints. So to be clear, he sprinted for 2.5 miles then “hit a cooldown” of two miles. Sometimes, I too will do a sprint workout—my cooldown is walking back to the car.
Anyway, when he got in the car, he announced, “Dad, my Vapor Flys are shot, and Street Flys are on sale right now for a hundred bucks.”
“Dude, we just bought you new training shoes and new spikes. And, like, the Mercedes of each,” I said.
“Yeah, but those aren’t for the same thing.”
“You said Vapor Flys are for street races.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not doing street races. You’re doing indoor track. And after indoor, you transition to outdoor.”
“But I will do street races,” he said.
“Dude, I’m not buying you yet another pair of ultra diesel German-engineered Italian handcrafted running shoes right now.”
Later that evening, we drove him to the Church for youth activities. After we dropped him off, Lauren and I headed to hell, I mean Market Basket, to grab a few things we had forgotten in our grocery order. As I drove, I said, “Did he tell you that his Vapor Flys are ‘shot’ and that Street Flys are on sale?”
“I can’t remember,” Lauren said.
“A hundred bucks, he says, for Street Flys.”
“We just got him shoes, though. For both Christmas and his birthday.”
“I told him that. And he said, ‘Those aren’t for road racing.'”
Lauren sighed. “You know, he does work, and he has his own money.”
“Oooh, great point,” I said.
“Of course, whenever you point that out to him, he suddenly becomes very concerned about having enough money for college.”
My kids did not play hockey growing up, and at least one reason is that the equipment is as expensive as Midas’s castle. The beauty of running allegedly is that you can walk out the door with whatever you have on and run. I didn’t realize I was in for hockey-level expenditures when Graham decided to become “elite.”
When we picked up Graham from Church, he slid into the backseat and I said, “Hey, Mom had a great point just now with me. If you want new Street Flys, you can always use your own money.”
“Well, Daaaad, you see, I’m trying to save for college.”
Lauren snickered.
“Nah uh,” I said. “You’re not pulling that out on me. The cost of those shoes is about one long shift at Chick Fil A. If you want them badly enough, you can go work that shift.”
He got quiet.
This morning, Lauren and I walked Dobby, and then she split off from me to do intervals while I took Dobby for a three-mile run. I started my Apple Watch, which has been with me through at least twenty-five pounds of my forty-pound middle age weight gain, and lumbered through my run. I was sure to stop with one-third of a mile to go before home so I could “hit a cooldown” of “walking home slowly.” I ended my workout on my watch, and just look at how many calories I was at.
Look, as a Latter-Day Saint, I have been accused my whole life of belonging to a cult. I realize now that I do belong to a cult—it’s running and working out. I can’t participate unless I have this damn thing on my wrist—Lauren and my sister-in-law Lisa say all the time, “If you didn’t record your run on your watch, it didn’t happen.” Graham has a Garmin watch and records all his to Strava. Further, the cult wants money—big money—for watches, running shoes, cold weather running gear, sweat-wicking shirts, holders for your iPhone so GPS can track your run more precisely, and on and on and on. Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six.
Tomorrow, I’m sleeping in. (Not really. My watch alarm is set for 6:30 am.)
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His Smile Lit Up a Room and Other Things to Say at My Funeral 