Today was a
big day for my son – his first bike race.
We have been talking about the race for weeks in an attempt to get him
excited about it. This morning he woke
up with an abundance of energy and excitement, eager to compete in his first race. However, we forgot to mention that we would
be going to church, as usual, first and only then would we be heading to the
race. As we were walking into church, my son’s hand clasped in mine, he looked
up at me with sadness and disappointment in his eyes, “Why are we at church? I
thought I had a bike race.” I smiled and
apologized for not having been clearer.
“Yes,” I promised him. “You will
be going to your race, but first we have to go to church.” His disappointment melted, somewhat, and with
half a smile he sighed, “Okay.”
Following
church, we arrived at the racing site in time for my son to take a few practice
laps of the course. Even though he has
transitioned to his 16 inch bicycle, the course was rocky and hilly and after
one lap he was a little hesitant on the bigger bike so I asked him if he would
prefer to race on his smaller bike and he said yes. The important thing, I felt, was for him to
be confident. If the smaller bike was
going to make him feel more comfortable on the unfamiliar terrain than that was
reason enough for him to go out on it. I
was just glad I had thought to bring both bicycles.
At the
starting line it was obvious that my son was the youngest in the race. He was noticeably smaller than the other kids
which we expected considering the age category was five and six year olds and
he is only four. We had looked for something
for younger kids but five was the youngest we could find. Anyway, knowing even before the race that my
son would be the youngest and therefore – most likely – the smallest and
weakest racer, I had a serious discussion with him last night so that he
wouldn’t be too devastated if he lost. I
told him honestly that he would be the youngest competitor and that would put
him at a disadvantage. “I don’t want you
to feel you have to win,” I explained.
“If you finish I will be proud of you.
Not many four year olds can even ride a bike with two wheels. I just want you to have fun, that’s all that
matters. Ride as hard as you can and
I’ll be proud of you.” Despite my pep
talk, I knew that if he did not “win” something he would be crushed and when I
suggested as much to my spouse she went to the craft store, bought a gold star,
stickers and ribbons made him his very own medal.
Since the
kids were so little with bikes that were nearly as heavy as they were, the guys
in charge of the race told me I could run along of side my son and pick up the
bike if it fell. I was glad I could run
with him so that I could cheer him on from start to finish, regardless of where
he was in the pack. When the start
signal was given most of the kids flew onto the course, my son – not exactly
stellar with his starts – immediately found himself in last place. I told him not to focus on the other kids but
to ride as hard as he could and he listened.
When he got to a little steep hill he jumped off his bike and ran up the
hill pushing the bike with all his might.
At the top of the hill he would get on the bike again and start
pedaling. He was slightly hesitant going
downhill, afraid to pick up too much speed.
He braked more than he needed to but, hey, it was his first race and I
did tell him that finishing and having fun were the most important things. At one point my son started chanting, “Go me!
Go me! Go me!” I smiled to myself.
On his
second lap, I noticed another mother pushing her child up one of the
hills. When she saw me behind her, she
informed me that one of the guys in charge of the race had informed her that
parents could push kids up the hill if there was a chance they might not make
it on their own. So, from that point on
my son did not have to get off his bike and push it anymore. That duty happily fell to me. Some of the kids lapped my son, but he seemed
oblivious to the other kids. At no point
did he give up or seem inclined to do so.
He raced his little heart out and less than one hundred meters before
the finish line he wiped out pretty badly, scraping up his knee, elbow and
hands in the fall. But I was very proud
of him when, despite his tears, he got back onto his bike to finish the
race. Yes, he finished last but it
didn’t matter. Like I promised, I was extremely
proud of him for tackling such a challenging course at such a young age. I hugged him and kissed him at the finish
line and told him he made me happy. “Did
I win?” he innocently asked, with eager anticipation on his voice. “No,” I shook my head and his face fell. “But I’m so proud of you for racing and doing
your best. You are my little
superstar.”
As we were
walking back to the car, my son holding my hand, I asked him, “Tell me the
truth, did you have fun?” And his smile
returned as he nodded his head, “Yes.” Then, taking a chance, I asked, “Do you
want to race again some time?” Again he nodded, his smile not dimming,
“Yes.” At the car, my spouse presented
him with the homemade medal and as he held it in his hand he was glowing. On the way home he wore it proudly and for
the rest of the day, whenever he saw someone, he held out his medal and with
joy emanating out of his body he declared, “Look what I got.” And when they looked, he promptly told them
that he had competed in his first bike race.
Yes, by the time we got home, he had forgotten all about losing. He rooted his happiness in having done
something he had never done before and in little trinket we gave him to
demonstrate our pride in his accomplishment.
No comments:
Post a Comment