Woke up on a Saturday morning about 6 am ready to rumble. I figured on some hard tactics in order to get the edge on the competition, still slumbering away in zebra pajamas in the top bunk. He’d beaten me, that kid--beaten me at the last 5k we'd stood toe to toe, and he has never let me live it down. I planned to wake him up at just the last minute and maybe his sleepy start would give me an edge.

Got to the race in time to register, but the Little Bastard managed to wake up properly between registering and the starting time. Damn sugar. Damn donuts. We lined up about two-thirds back, the Little Bastard being all too smug about the fact that only a year ago, he was lined up at the 1/2 mile fun run we'd later watch, and here he was with grown ups all around him, knowing he'd beat more than a few of them, planning to beat at least one of them. Not if I could help it. My gene pool is not filled with any gazelleish qualities, no perfect mix of fast twitch and slow twitch, no talent to speak of. Nary a drop. We are, if anything, merely stubborn. I was pitted against myself, in a way, except a me all jittery with blood sugar and fresh bones. I was going to make this pint-sized version of myself swallow that self-satisfied grin. Kid was going to be crying to his mama time I got done with him. The gun went off and we kind of shuffled our way to the timing mats.

My strategy was to shadow him, wear him out like. He started slow, about a 10:30ish pace, and this lasted...oh, a good three-tenths of a mile, at which point I decided to take a cheap shot and pushed the pace, try to shake this kid. Needed to see what the kid had today, what'd he brought to the table. He hung with me and we crossed the first mile marker at 10:09. I was still smarting from the kick he unloaded on me at the last race, beating me by about 5 seconds. Kids these days just don’t respect their dads. Got to the aid station just before the turnaround point and saw a little girl just hammering away on the return. She was a beautiful kid and had an effortless stride. Couldn’t have been more than 7 and she must have been knocking out 9:00 miles. I was humbled by it, brought to a walk, and that Little Bastard mockingly walking next to me, as if to say, "Any time I want to, old man. Any time." We got to the turnaround and I bolted, again trying to drop him, but he stayed with me. I resigned to it being neck and neck the rest of the way. The next mile passed quickly and in spite of that 100 yard walk into the turnaround, we hit the 2 mile mark at 21:05. I got desperate. I pointed to the roadside bushes and yelled, “Look!!! Hobbits!!” He fell for it. Fell for it and was all eight-year-old and hopeful, though he quickly realized the ruse, when he saw the lawn gnomes for what they were. Little Bastard overcame his disappointment and harnassed his anger, dug for and found some genetic code inherited from his mother and not my gazelleless line, made it speed. I received a kick in the butt for my hobbit deception. We passed a new shopping center and I told him if he dropped out now, I’d buy him an X-Box. He just said they really only have big kid games for X-Box and he didn’t think that was appropriate for his age group. Then I threatened that if he beat me again, I’d send him to school with a lunch bag full of nothing but raw brussel sprouts and asparagus for a week. He said he’d tell Mom and Nana. Now, I'm familiar with a woman's scorn, can endure my wife's or my mother's for a time, but not the two of them scorning me at once. I backed off the threats, and we went back and forth, negotiating like this for the rest of the race, all the while him steadily increasing his pace, just wearing the old man down.

Missed the 3 mile mark amid Gameboys and bikes, skateboards and archery sets, but he cruised into the finish at 32:10, with me panting and wheezing a disappointing second or two behind him. He got a shiny new personal best by 1:43 and my own improved to 32:14. I’m tired of losing to an eight year-old kid. Gotta beat this kid, I do.