Empowered with never ending grit and determination (and some of my favorite applesauce), Luke stands at the ready, anxiously awaiting the countdown to the start of his last mountain bike race of the season. Merely a month prior was his first, on a course he’s never seen before, racing against other seventh graders who are similarly jumping into the unknown. This time we have previously rode the course, giving him opportunities to know where to sprint, better sections to pass others, and generally more confidence on his trusty steed.
And just like his last race two weeks prior, we have our usual pep talk, then his coaches give theirs, and he’s whisked away to warm up a little bit with his team before staging for his race.
The pit zone, where his team congregates, and where the start line is, are usually separated by a little bit of distance. So I give him one last fist bump, tell him I’m proud of him, and walk with the other parents to the staging area while he’s off pedaling with his team.
That walk is an interesting walk. Having done it thrice I’m a novice at finding my way around the race course, let alone doing my best to avoid any areas that are off-limits. So many emails about earning your team penalties if you do this or that, I’m walking this goat head-infused course on eggshells.
More than getting lost physically, I’m finding myself lost emotionally. More than proud of my son’s efforts being the competitive athlete he is in soccer, baseball, and MTB, I sense this feeling is what Hollywood directors made a younger version of myself think what it would feel like to wave goodbye to your loved ones as they set sail for the new world. But it’s just a mountain bike race, he’s pedaling familiar terrain, in the company of over 60 other racers, on a course littered with marshals, sweepers, roaming medics, and diehard supporters who’ve hiked a few miles to see their favorites battle the course and its meandering ways.
I thought crying at a mountain bike race was reserved for those life shattering moments where flashing lights come in. Having not observed such calamities at any of our races yet, I guess I’m just getting softer in my old age, and the witty banter and tall tales of a 42 year old boy smitten with the skies above can’t hold back the physical manifestations of emotions of watching what once rested neatly in your arms now pedals through the hills and valleys of life’s challenges while I stand on the sidelines hoping these damn allergies run their course.