On Family Fitness, Treat Expectations, and the Reason We Run
Every time I stop running for a while, my brain turns it into folklore. The return becomes some impossible mountain, the kind that requires courage, discipline, and probably better weather. Last year, after years away from running, I started again because Caleb and I wanted to actually prepare for the Turkey Trot, instead of doing what we usually did: showing up at the starting line each year and flailing our way through it.
Before long, Holden started joining us too. Some nights both boys came. Some nights one. Some nights neither. We were never exactly consistent, but we were moving together.
At first, it felt brutal. My legs felt wooden, my lungs filed complaints, and every step seemed personally offended. But we kept going long enough for it to become normal, or at least normal-adjacent.
Our last run of 2025 was the Turkey Trot itself. After that, we lost momentum. Then winter came. Life got busy. Darkness arrived at 4:30 like a personal insult.
By April 27 of this year, it had been five months since we’d run. The excuses had become familiar: too cold, too wet, too muddy, too late, too something. But that evening was warm enough, dry enough, and both boys were game. For once, there was nothing left to blame.
This time, the break was shorter than last year’s long absence, but the dread arrived right on schedule. I expected wooden legs and instant regret. Instead, it was not nearly as hard once I actually started moving. Our time was even better than our first run back last year, proof that the body remembers more than the mind admits.
That’s the trick with running, and maybe with most things worth doing. It looms until the random ordinary day when you finally lace up and go.
Of course, our grand comeback was a full circus.
We drove to our first choice track. Occupied. Drove to our second choice track. Also occupied. Apparently the whole city had coordinated against me. So we ended up at a trail instead.
Holden was thrilled. Holden loves trails. Caleb and I do not. We prefer flat surfaces and emotional stability.
But it was one of those warm spring evenings that feels like a reward for surviving winter. Fresh air. People out walking. Trees waking up again. The kind of day that makes you think maybe life is trying to be nice for once.
So we did it. A few spurts of jogging. A lot of walking. Some bargaining with ourselves.
Holden spent much of the run lagging behind, stepping off the trail into the wooded grass to collect sticks and branches. At one point he fell, bloodied a finger, and cried.
But alas…. even tears could not distract anyone from the established post-run agenda.
Last year, I accidentally created tiny post-run capitalists by taking the boys for treats after most runs. Mid-run, Caleb asked, “Are we getting treats?”
“No,” I said firmly. “We still have to eat dinner.”
“What?!” he said. “That’s the whole reason I came!”
I spent the rest of the run pretending my answer was final.
Afterward, I relented.
We left 7/11 with drinks and slushies, our tradition intact, even if it cost me $5.05. Holden, earlier devastated by his finger injury, was suddenly healed.
Honestly? Worth it.
Because maybe that was part of the point.
Sometimes the point isn’t the run at all. Sometimes it’s the people beside you, the small traditions waiting at the end, and the promise of fluorescent beverages.
