The Parents

Story by: Hank Brown

I love my mom and dad.

Everyone loves my mom and dad. How can you not love a couple that averages about 5'3" in height, 71 years in age, and at least one floppy hat between them? The other day they came to visit me at my office "to see what the heck I do" and after they left my secretary came by and said,

"I just love your parents. They're so CUTE!"

I never thought of my parents as cute, but I guess they are. My dad's a retired a physician, my mom a self-proclaimed advisor (she likes to give advice).

My dad has cured everyone within a fifty mile radius of my town of some deadly disease at least twice during their lifetime. I know this because I've been told by everyone I meet that finds out I'm "Jim Brown's son."

They love to play tennis. They're pretty good too. They use these huge rackets that cast shadows over the next four courts. They wear elbow braces and ankle braces and the latest in UV protection eyewear. Sometimes when I'm out running I'll spot them playing on one of the neighborhood courts. I'll wave and keep going, and as I disappear down the road I can "hear" them telling their silver-haired doubles partners,

"That's our son. He sure likes to run."

Long distance runners have come to accept the shock effect when non-runners learn of the distances we cover on a daily basis using just our feet. My parents are no exception, of course. My dad expresses shock, my mom throws in a dose of concern.

This past weekend I was over at my parents' house and my dad asked me where I ran that day.

"I ran out to Oak Hill Cemetery. It's a good course."

"Isn't that the cemetery off of Lynn Garden Drive?" he asks with his hand pointing off in one direction as if directing us to the next galaxy.

"Yep. Up there behind the Times-News building."

"You RAN out there? And back again? That must be what... 8 miles?"

I just smiled back at my dad, "Uh huh, closer to 9." My mom was now looking up over her reading glasses.

"Oh, Hank, that's too far," she says. "Especially in this kind of weather."

Of course, sometimes Mom is right. Not too long ago I was attempting a 20 mile run on a very cold, windy, but sunny day. About 12 miles into the run I began to chill from the drastic changes n temperatures (warm with the wind, but very cold into the wind), and my stomach suddenly felt like living quarters for a miniature gymnastics team.

Walking in the middle of a training run is the ultimate disgrace to a runner. But I was walking, and guess who should drive by?

"Hank, are you okay?"

"Nope."

"Need a ride?"

"Please."

And so I was rescued by my mom and dad. I felt 8-years old again. But at that point I would have accepted a ride from a street gang.

Mom and Dad have been to a few road races. They like to make it an outing, especially if my sister is running also. At a recent half-marathon, they picked up my kids, my sister's kids, and a few more from their stable of grandchildren, and organized cheering stations at several places along the course.

It was great to have the support along the course, and it helped me to a second place finish. My parents quickly congratulated me after the race and started asking me questions about the guy who won.

So I pointed him out and told them all about his college running career and how he's now hoping to qualify for the Olympic Trials.

"Well, he's probably younger than you, that's why he beat you."

"Mom, he beat me by two minutes."

I wandered off to talk to a few more people and I noticed Mom and Dad had cornered him, the winner of the race. Before long they knew who his parents were, where they were raised, where they worked, where he worked, and who their doctor was.

"He's such a nice young man, " they would tell me later.

"And fast, too," I added.

The effort of the half-marathon took its toll, and I wasn't feeling too well, stomach problems again. I went inside, laid down on the floor, and tried to die. Somehow, I lived through it, but not without putting a few more bricks in my parent's wall of worry.

A few days later, my father the doctor, had somehow found five medical articles on this subject. I couldn't believe that research projects had actually been done on stomach cramps and running.

"Dad, how in the world did you find these articles?"

"I just went to the hospital and looked them up."

I thanked him and read them. I didn't have the heart to tell him I understood only about one out of every three words. Why don't doctors just say "stomach" instead of "gastrosomethingsomething."

I decided to change the subject and talk about something more pleasant than my stomach.

"He, Dad, when are you taking off for Spring Training?"

"First of March."

"Florida again?" He and Mom usually go to Florida for a few weeks to follow his favorite team, the St. Louis Cardinals at the their training camp.

"Nope, this year we're going to Arizona. Trying something different."

"Arizona? I bet that's a great place to run."

Dad just shook his head and smiled. "It's a better place to watch baseball."

I had to agree..

Cool Running 01.08.00.