Our Last Race

Line up for the race, children!” Miss Chissom yelled at us.

Obediently, we ran to the white line painted on the dark asphalt playground. Our teacher’s eyes glistened as brightly as the whistle she held. Her raven-black hair was tightly combed into a plain bun at the back of her head. She might as well have had on a witch’s hat and gown for that’s what we thought she was. We ran not for the fun, nor for the competition, but for the fear of losing and being ridiculed by her.

She had never learned how to start a race. After sternly glaring at us for a second, she shouted, “Go!”

She never used the whistle. There was no reason to use it—her voice shrilled loudly enough. A few children started right away, but most of us lingered a cou- ple of seconds longer before we started running. I was one of those who lagged behind, but I was determined to catch up to the others. Finally, I ran past every- one and came across the finish line first. Joyfully, I looked up at my teacher. She never looked at me. Instead, she declared to all of us, “Some of you started before the others. We’ll have to run the race again.”

My heart sank. The elation from my victory disappeared, but in its place came a determination to win again. All of us returned to the line and got ready once more. I doubt if many of my classmates were as eager to try again as I was.

Our teacher glared at us from her place on the finish line. This time she shout- ed, “Ready!” She paused a couple of seconds as if she was daring us to run before she started us. She shouted, “Go!” for the second time that afternoon. I started running as fast as I could. My legs and arms pushed my whole body forward. I never saw or heard anyone. I raced myself, faster and faster, and I finished first.

With a subtle sneer, she said “Good enough,” to everyone. I did not expect or want praise from her, the teacher I did not love. However, I had discovered the joy of running. The teacher had not inspired me, but the exhilaration of the race had thrilled me. That day after school I ran home eagerly to tell my mother, whom I did love very much.

My mother was always waiting for my sister, brother and I to come home from school. She would spend the rest of the afternoon watching us play. Occasionally, she would join our games. I always felt her interest and her pride in whatever we did.

I ran into the kitchen where she was waiting for us.

“Mom,” I said breathlessly. “I won the race at school. Everyone ran. The whole class. The first time I passed everyone––I didn’t even get started on time. My teacher thought some of us started running before she told us to go, so she started the race again. I won again. I won by a long, long way.”

My mother praised me and then said laughing, “I suppose you think you can beat me now.”

I looked at her in surprise and replied, “Maybe. Maybe I can.”

She said, “Okay, it’s a race.”

After she finished putting dinner in the oven, my mother went up to her bedroom and put on her pointy-toed blue canvas tennis shoes. We went over to the big vacant lot across the street. My mother told me she would start us by saying, “Go!” The first one to touch the telephone pole across the lot would be the winner.

We lined up side-by-side. My mother looked over at me and asked, “Are you ready?”

I nodded and braced one leg in back of me and bent my forward leg at the knee. Softly, calmly, my mother said, “Go!” She raced forward far ahead of me. I struggled to catch up to her, but she pulled away making the gap between us even larger. She won easily.

I was stunned by how effortlessly she had won. From that minute, my goal was to try to race her and win. Daily, I practiced running sprints and longer distances. Sometimes, while I was running or sitting in class at school, I daydreamed about beating her. That hated teacher had given me a moment of triumph, which I wanted to repeat. This time, however, the goal I had set was to race my mother and win. When I was in fifth grade, I started running in track meets in our city. I usually won first or second place. My mother and father encouraged my inter- est in track. I would run laps around the subdivision where I lived. I would run everywhere; frequently, Sandy, my family’s dog would accompany me. I would race anyone who challenged me. However, I still dreamed of the day I would race against my mother again and win.

Occasionally, my mother would consent to a race. Eagerly, I would wait until she finished whatever task she was doing. She would take off her apron and get her tennis shoes. The routine never varied. We would walk across to the lot, and she would look at me and ask if I was ready. She would get into her ready position and start us. Off I would run, determined to catch her and touch the telephone pole first, but she always won.

At school, my running gave me a slight taste of fame. In sixth grade, I won the 50-yard dash and the 100-yard dash at the citywide Junior Olympics. My name was in the paper. I was happy and proud. Teachers and classmates congratulated me, but I knew I still had to race and beat my mother.

A few days later, my mother agreed to a race. We walked over to our usual spot. She said, “Go!” in her usual soft, calm voice. We raced. I was close to her. Closer than I had ever been. I ran hard trying to catch her. I could feel her feet hitting the earth in front of mine. She surged forward and touched the pole seconds before I did.

After she caught her breath, she said, “You almost beat me, Ingrid. Maybe you will next time.”

For years I had dreamed about the day I would win the race against my mother. How proud I would be to run our course on that lot and touch the pole first. And yet, now I realized I would not be as happy as I had dreamed I would be.

I was growing up, and she was growing older. For me running was exhilarating and exciting. However, in racing my mother, I was also racing myself. Once I had won, we would never have a reason to race again.

Later that year I ran in a state track meet. I made it through the preliminary heats and into the finals. I had never been in a track meet with so many eager and proficient runners. The finals were run in the burning heat of the midday. The announcer called for the other girls and I got into our starting blocks. After the “Ready” commands, the starter fired his gun. They ran! And I ran! Straight down the cinder track with my red and white spiked track shoes, I raced. I was shoulder to shoulder with the other girls. I pulled forward and won.

A few days later after the excitement of my victory had worn off, my mother asked me, “Would you like to race me out at the lot?”

Sadly, I nodded. I was not eager to race. I knew I would win. My mother said, “Go!” and we raced. I ran flying over the tufts of grass. I ran knowing I had left my mother behind and touched the pole first. As I watched her finish our little course and touch the pole, I was sad, very sad. It was the first time in my life that I realized that I was growing up, and my mother was growing old. I had won. I had lost. I knew that every day from then on the gap between my mother and me would widen. And, unlike Miss Chissom, I could not declare a false start and start the race over again.

Ingrid Miller is a writer and nurse educator living in northwest Indiana.

~Ingrid Miller