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They’d already delayed Hancock’s season indefinitely.
The way it was going, I doubted that they’d get started until June.
If even then.
Looking at all the comments in my online Facebook groups about all the runs being canceled, I knew they wouldn’t reschedule for a month or two. It’d be more like five.
“Maybe,” I said softly as I looked over at my man. “Are you sad that you missed opening day?”
He picked up our son’s foot, his large hand engulfing it, and shook his head.
“At first, I was really disappointed. This being one of my last seasons, I really didn’t think that this would be how it’d begin. I felt like maybe people would be looking at me, watching me real close, picking apart every single thing I did. Now? I almost wish the announcers were tearing me apart. At least that would mean I was playing.” He looked at me. “But getting to spend this time with you and the kids? That’s life changing. I’ll never get this opportunity again. Do you know how nice it is to be able to sit here and hold them when they go to sleep?”
That was true.
Our children had all fallen asleep on Hancock tonight. Something they barely ever got to do.
I’d taken the other two to bed. Our youngest, I left because Hancock seemed to be soaking up the ability to hold him this last week.
“So to answer your question, I’m sad I missed opening day. But I’m replacing it with something that’s way better,” he answered, his eyes sincere. “I know you’ve trained hard for this, baby, but you’ll get your chance again.”
I would.
But still, it wasn’t the same.
“And you never know, maybe they’ll reschedule it for sooner than you think.
Only, a week and a half later, I found out that they not only postponed it, but they postponed it for six months in the future. Which meant I’d be once again training for my marathon during the dog days of summer.
Which really, really sucked.
The day I found out, I looked at my man and said, “I’m running it this weekend. Come hell or high water, I’m getting it done.”
• • •
I snuck out of the house at barely six that morning.
It was still pitch dark, and I almost turned around and went back inside, already having second thoughts about doing it today. I wasn’t ready. I hadn’t tapered. I’d worked out a lot that week. And I was making excuses.
Instead, I pushed past my fear of the unknown—who the hell knew what running twenty-six point two miles felt like the first time?—and walked out to my truck.
Once I made sure to have my headphones, my reflector vest, and my water belt, I headed out.
When I arrived at the almost abandoned trail, I looked around sadly.
On a normal day, pre-Covid-19, this place would’ve already been hopping.
Now, there was one lone elderly man pushing his walker down the path.
I waved and smiled at him as I passed, making sure to stay six feet away, and began my run.
The first eight miles went great. Everything was moving well, my knees didn’t hurt, and my breathing was steady.
It was mile nine when everything started to go to hell.
My audio book app started to glitch, and I had to switch over to music, which made me speed up and slow down with the tempo of the songs that I was listening to.
I was so frustrated with my stupid song selection that at first, I didn’t see him until I was nearly right in front of where he was standing. That’s when I nearly started to cry.
