Breaking Fall Break

Newsletter 2024-10-25

We had our fall break planned out perfectly. By that, I mean we hardly had any plans at all. Lola and I didn’t have work, and the kids didn’t have school or sports. We weren’t going anywhere overnight or out of state. I was locked in for a week of sleeping in and vegging out. Then my fourteen-year-old messed it all up. Teenagers are the worst.

I wrote last week about Betsy’s showdown at the conference cross country meet. She beat an old rival, set a new personal best, and made the all-conference team. It was more winning in one afternoon than I’ve done in my entire life. It was a great end to the season—except that it wasn’t really the end. There was still one race left to go. The final meet was sectionals, which functions as the first round of a single-elimination tournament for all the teams in the area. I didn’t write about it because Betsy didn’t stand a chance to advance. I stopped her story with the conference meet to end on a high note. You get that kind of positive coverage when your dad has his own newsletter. I don’t know if you’ve realized this yet, but I’m a highly biased source. Going into sectionals last Saturday, Betsy looked as relaxed as could be. She had nothing at stake and nothing to prove. She took off like a bat out of hell. Feel free to skip the next few paragraphs if you have trouble with second-hand embarrassment. I’m about to enter my final form as a shamelessly proud father.

Betsy came flying through the mile mark way ahead of her normal pace. I didn’t know if she could hold it, but I knew she was going for broke. I felt all the feels. Betsy didn’t slow down. Meter after meter, her feet churned, chasing down other runners. The battle for third place on her team was far behind her. She was closing in on runner number two. Normally, they were barely in the same state, let alone the same zip code. Now, they were on the same straightaway. She wasn’t Betsy’s target. Her real opponent was time itself. Before the race, the assistant coach told her that, if she broke a certain minute mark, he’d buy her ice cream. It was an absurd goal. She would have to surpass her huge PR from the week before by another thirty seconds. She shattered her old mark by a minute and a half. The girl doesn’t take chances with ice cream.

She accidentally won too hard. In the final steps, Betsy caught one last runner. We didn’t know it in the moment, but Betsy and the other girl were the final two to qualify for regionals. Instead of starting the off-season over fall break, she now had another week of practice. Oops. Two other girls on Betsy’s team, both juniors, also made it. One of them, the second place runner on the squad, missed all of this week’s practices to go on a cruise with her family. I can’t blame her. Imagine if your prize for doing well was to lose a seven-day vacation to the Caribbean. I’d break my own leg to make extra sure I didn’t qualify for regionals. My lack of planning for fall break meant Betsy was available for workouts all week. She and I both got to wake up early so I could drop her off and pick her up. Not that I minded. (Okay, I minded a little.) I love seeing Betsy do well. It’s a triumph for her, and, more selfishly, for me. My greatest weakness as an athlete was that, in big moments, I always came up small. She’s the opposite. The more important the occasion, the better she does. My main goal in life is to not rub off on her.

That was a challenge Sunday, the day after sectionals, when we took a trip together to an amusement park. It wasn’t a reward, like going to Disneyland after winning the Superbowl. We actually scheduled the outing for that date because we thought her season would be over by then. She and I are the only ones in the family who like roller coasters. The other girls get their survival instincts from their mother. Humans weren’t meant to be spun in circles hundreds of feet in the air. Nobody ever fell to their death while staying at home reading a book. Betsy and I were joined by my board game friends Peter and Delilah and one other couple on the three-hour drive to southern Indiana. We went on every coaster, which was six more than we should have. The big metal coaster, which looked the scariest from the ground, offered the smoothest, most relaxing ride. The wooden roller coasters, by contrast, felt like they were trying to shake our skeletons out of our bodies. We collectively concluded that we’re too old to go on anything that bumpy again. Betsy wasn’t part of that vote. Her bones are still mostly cartilage. The biggest disappointment of the day was the trick-or-treating. The park’s radio ads promised free candy, but that was only for kids twelve and under. We had to settle for the park’s free sunscreen, which I didn’t use, and free soft drinks, which I guzzled with reckless abandon. That may or may not have been related to the emergency stop we made on the ride home. If you think Betsy is fast, you should see me sprint for the bathroom.

Tuesday, I took another day trip, this time with my whole family. After Betsy’s morning practice, we drove to a big cat rescue in another part of the state. I’ve never seen so many tigers in one place. It’s humbling to be face-to-face with a four-hundred-pound apex predator held back only by the same kind of chain link fence found at your local softball field. It’s a wonder that human beings and not these marvelous creatures are the dominant species on the planet. We all owe a debt of gratitude to whichever brilliant caveman invented a pointy stick. The tigers could do worse things than eat you. Our guide warned us that one liked to spray guests with a jet of urine when they walked by. Of course that tiger had the enclosure with the longest perimeter along the trail. For the rest of the tour, I got jumpy every time I saw a tiger turn around. A raised tail is way more frightening than bared teeth.

Wednesday was the scariest day for the kids.