Results: 7 minutes, 30 seconds. Third place!
It was Little Boy’s second year at the Heartbreak Hill 1-miler for kids. Last year, he raced with the 7-year olds, despite being only 6 (because 7 is the youngest age group and we wanted him to give it a go). He finished in 8th place out of about 25, which was very good, and not too surprising because this is his type of race: uphill for a half mile, downhill for a half mile. He’s got the endurance and grit to go uphill and I’ve seen him fly down hills at speeds that make me cringe.
To be honest, Little Boy isn’t very excited about the races we sign him up for (about 3-4 a year). But he does them willingly and tries his hardest and usually seems happy at the end. And he’s getting less non-excited about them, if that makes any sense. I think the competition is good for him. There’s a bit of pressure, but dealing with the pressure and knowing you have to try your hardest if you want that trophy is ultimately a good thing for kids of the sporting kind, like him.
We arrived at the registration about an hour beforehand. After getting his number, Little Boy spent a good 30 minutes on the bouncy house, which was probably an excellent warm-up. Why don’t more races have bouncy houses?
Pre-race warmup
His heat was the second heat, after the 7-year old girls. When the 7-year old boys lined up at the start, boys jostled for spots in the front, and the ever-good-natured Little Boy wound up in the back. The announcer said, “Listen, this is a long race! If you’re fast enough, it doesn’t matter if you start at the front or the back!“ None of the boys yielded their spots at the front.
The horn sounded and they took off. Little Boy was in the back along the small stretch of flat that would eventually climb to the notorious Heartbreak Hill. Some parents where running alongside the boys. Mr. P also took off up the hill, albeit walking, as the boys disappeared from view up the hill.
Starting in the back, next the boy who would finish first.
Look at that stride!
I waited at the finish. The clock ticked. Around 6 minutes later, the leading police motorcycle came in sight, coming down the hill. I could see a blond boy following it. Behind him, another fair-skinned boy. And behind him… Little Boy!
I started to get crazy. If he was in fifth or sixth place, I would not have gotten crazy… but he was in third and there were two boys hot on his heels. I could see he was slowing and they were gaining on him, and there was still a long stretch to the finish.
I started yelling. Crazy parent yelling. “Go, Little Boy, go! Keep going! You’re in third, don’t let up! Go! Go!”
He made eye contact with me and began to noticeably pick up his pace. I kept yelling. Other people were staring at me but I didn’t care. He coasted into third place at the finish.
“Look at that, the kid who started in the back ended up in third place!” said the smug announcer.
Third place at this race is a big deal. There’s a trophy and you get to talk into the microphone. Little Boy was thrilled.
Talking to his adoring fans
Third, second, first place
“I’m so proud of you!” I told him.
“I’m so proud of myself!” he told me.
He later told me he was glad I was yelling at him at the finish line, because “I knew I had to go faster.” Good. When he’s a teenager, I’m sure he’ll remember my demented hollering differently.
Little Boy was also thankful for Mr. P’s advice, which was to never let the leader out of his sight. Apparently the podium winners all jostled for the lead at some point near the top of the hill.
All in all, Little Boy’s confidence in himself has risen measurably since the race. For all his trophies and medals (the kind that everyone gets), he keeps saying this is his “first real trophy.”
Beaming with pride
