The Relay Race

The handoff was flawless. Sitting in my wheelchair on the track’s Astro-Turfed infield, I could almost feel the aluminum baton in my hand, watching my daughter leave the exchange zone and head down the rubberized homestretch, soon entering the near turn, showing perfect form as she ran the anchor leg of the 4 X 1,600-meter relay race in the state high school championship relays.

Quickly turning my wheelchair around, I wheeled like mad across the infield, heading for the backstretch.

Still showing perfect form, she came out of the turn and entered the backstretch, the baton clutched in her hand, well ahead of the other teams’ anchors. I screamed words of encouragement almost from the time she appeared until she disappeared going into the far turn. “GO! GO! GO!” I kept yelling, as I watched her run. “YOU’RE LOOKING GOOD!” I was so proud of her. This would be repeated three more times.

While I waited in the wheelchair for her to come back down the backstretch, my mind got to wandering. I went to the old high school; my daughter is going to the new high school. When the construction of the new school was completed, the principal led us parents on a guided tour. Most of the stuff – the desks and chairs, the pull-down maps, the cafeteria’s tables, the kitchen’s stainless-steel appliances, the auditorium’s rows of folding, padded seats, etc. – were brand-spanking new. Very few items had been brought from the old high school to the new high school. One thing that had been brought from the old school to the new school was the trophy case and its myriad trophies.

I stopped to admire the trophies. The trophies, some awarded over fifty years ago, represented just about every sport offered by the school: football, basketball. soccer, baseball, cross country, track-and-field. And there was the trophy that had my name and the names of my three teammates engraved on it for winning the 4 X 1-mile relay race at the state high school championship relays. Not only did we win the race, we broke the state record with a time that has yet to be broken. Like my daughter, I ran the anchor leg.

I continued running after graduation, mainly jogging with my daughter every morning before her school along the former railroad bed that led to the river, or participating in the 5K and 10K runs sponsored by local charities.

My jogging and running, however, came to a screeching halt about four months ago when I lost the use of my legs in a car wreck. Confined to a wheelchair for what would probably be the rest of my life, I now could only run vicariously through my daughter.

My mind snapped back to reality when I saw the first runner come out of the near turn and enter the backstretch. It was my daughter. She was still in the lead!

“GO! GO! GO!”

When she ran past me, I swear I could feel my bum legs trying their level bests to keep up with her long strides.

She looked so relaxed when she ran smoothly past me on the third lap (in first place, natch!), something I taught her, RELAX, RELAX, RELAX! I caught myself smiling because she was taking some of her old man’s advice!

Not long afterwards, I heard the bell ring, signifying the last lap. Turning my wheelchair back around, I again hurriedly wheeled across the infield, this time heading for the start/finish line to watch the finish of the race, all the time thinking Don’t start your kick until you’re at least halfway into the far turn. I was hoping she would take her old man’s advice again!

I reached the start/finish line just as the front runner emerged from the far turn and very shortly was running full blast down the homestretch. It was my daughter, still in the lead.

The other runners and the spectators were yelling their heads off as the relay runners, batons in hands, ran down the homestretch, heading for the orange finish-line tape. My daughter was leading the pack with the powerful kick that I taught her. The runner in second place was trying to catch up to my daughter, but I knew she couldn’t catch her and finish in first place because the second-place runner was starting to lose her form, her arms getting stiffer and stiffer, her stride getting shorter and shorter.

Somehow, my daughter’s tired body was able to produce one last spurt of energy, which sent her breaking the tape and stumbling across the finish line in first place. She stopped running at the other end of the finish line and tried to catch her breath, her body bent over, her hands on her hips. She looked really worn out as she tried to cool her burning lungs, get her labored breathing under control and her pounding heart back to normal again. While at the same time trying not to throw up. She forced herself to straighten back up. Among the many congratulatory hugs, high fives and friendly back slaps, she began walking down the track just to keep moving so that her legs wouldn’t cramp up, ignoring her sore legs protesting that they couldn’t take another step. Watching her cool down, I sympathized with my daughter; I’ve experienced the post-race feeling a zillion times. We called it the “after race feeling like crap” or the “I think I’m fixing to die” syndrome. I warned my daughter about it back when she was in elementary school, but still she became a runner. In fact, I think I experienced the syndrome while I was sitting on the sideline in my wheelchair cheering myself hoarse as I watched my daughter run down the homestretch and break the finish-line tape.

One of my daughter’s teammates offered to push me to the trophy tent, where the first-place trophy will be presented. Like the other members of the team, she was overcome with excitement.

While I was being pushed toward the trophy tent, an over-modulated voice came over the loudspeaker attached to the judges’ box above the grandstand. The voice announced the winner of the 4 X 1,600-meter relay race. The voice also said that the current state record time had been shattered and that a new record time had been set. I, too, was overcome with excitement at the announcement, thinking how good it was going to be when that trophy joins the other trophies in the trophy case at the new high school.