All Kinds of Races Going Down

It was one of those moments this morning that El Oso was hemming my jeans and I was checking baseball stats from the game last night…

Puck was prepping for the big biathlon fundraiser at school that afternoon by jumping on the trampoline at a friend’s house down the road from the Silverspoon’s. Add in some bikes and walks and a barbecue sandwich, and he was set to go.

Everyone made it for the big occasion except Jaya (playing music at a wedding show I think), Izzy (in Nashville), and Linnea (volleyball tournament). I’m pretty sure Puck had the largest collection of aunts and uncles in attendance that afternoon. Including Rose – on her way with Joe and Jaya to Oktoberfest – wearing her “St. Louis: A Drinking Town with a Baseball Problem” t-shirt. Mom was mildly embarrassed.

Joe and Francis took up residence at the corners of the makeshift track, hoping to see some good crashes.

Puck got a number pinned on his chest for the “short race”: 2 miles on the bike, 0.5 on foot. A little more than I had anticipated for some reason. Still, I guess it didn’t occur to me that maybe training for this thing might have been a good idea. I knew he ran in P.E., so I just let him go for it.

He was excited to start. A blast of the bullhorn, and he was off.

Two laps in, he was pushing his legs to keep going with his hands. But he was determined. The kids kept cheering him on at the corners. Four laps later, he was still going strong with encouragement from the grandparents and kids, snapping pictures with iPhones.

“Come on, honey!”

“Just one more lap, Puck! One more!”

“Good job, bud!”

He chugged through that foot race, too, and was rewarded at the finish line with a medal for completing the race, a water bottle, and high-fives from the family.

Awhile later he relaxed face-down on the asphalt between picking at a mango Italian ice and a bacon-goat-cheese crepe. But for all the “I’m so exhausted” business, he wasn’t too tired not to play with the neighbor girls in the street when we got home.

Meanwhile, I switched on game #161 of the season, which somehow held steady … until Matt Holliday left with the stomach flu. Tense times.