My Medallion

“Hey, Bekah, look at this,” I said, indicating the flyer announcing the “Freeze Your Buns Off” 5K.

I was speaking to my oldest daughter Rebekah, a seventh grader. We were standing in front of the bulletin board that hung right outside the laundry mat.

“That looks like fun,” she replied.

“Do you want to do it? It’s next month, in February.”

“Yeah, let’s do it.”

“We’ll have to do some practice runs in the next few weeks, and it’ll be cold. Do you think you can make yourself run with me?”

“Sure Dad, we’ll get to be together.”

And so it was decided. We would run five kilometers in the freezing cold starting at 6:30 in the morning. That’s probably why the race was called the “Freeze Your Buns Off” 5K. The poster promised two things for every runner: a sense of accomplishment and a package of hot dog buns.

My mental picture of us on race day was a pair of slender bodies striding rhythmically together, the breeze ruffling the edges of our sleek nylon shorts and jerseys. Our running would be characterized by long, inaudible steps, our hair in graceful waves behind us, our faces trained on the road ahead. The first training run together proved to be anything but. I finally let go of my vision for us; we would simply jog as much of the three miles as we could and walk the rest.

We were living in the Netherlands at the time. She was playing in her first year of youth-league basketball. I loved watching her play, but we really couldn’t connect through her basketball experience. I never played organized basketball, but more importantly, her coach was the “other” man in her life. I missed being her only adult male friend.

On the day of the race, I was up early to get us ready and out the door. It was especially cold that morning, just as the flyer had promised. We were going to freeze our buns off.

“Have you got your gloves and hat?” I asked her.

During the ten minute car ride we talked about the temperature and our excitement about what we were doing. Arriving a few minutes before the start, we joined the crowd of nearly twenty runners forming at the only entrance to the military base where the race would be held. We received our instructions from a burly military man I’d never met. Julie, I did this a little differently than we suggested. See what you think. I think this eases the “inset” of the next paragraph.

“You’ll run through the gate and down the entrance road. Take the first left; run through the village and up the hill. Take a left at the “T” and follow that road around the back of the base. You’ll come down next to the railroad tracks. Just follow them back to the gate here, the finish line will be just inside. When we’re all back we’ll meet in the fitness center.”

The other runners in the pack had sleek and slender bodies just like the ones I had seen in my vision. Bekah and I, on the other hand, didn’t look like serious runners. We wore so many layers we looked like Bibendum the Michelin tire character and his daughter. Bekah completed our awkward look with mittens and a ski cap.

I felt a little out of place as the gun sounded. I was the only teacher there; the rest of the runners were military, and they all seemed to know each other. I didn’t know any of them. I was also the only person to bring a child. What had seemed like such a great idea six weeks ago in front of the laundry mat, was now unfolding as a great opportunity for embarrassment. Bekah and I fell behind the pack just outside of the gate.

Not far from the start, the rest of the runners increased their lead. Just as we reached the halfway point to the left turn, the last of the runners ahead rounded the corner, disappearing from view.

“Dad, I have to walk.”

Bekah’s next words jabbed at my heart: “Dad, I’m sorry we have to walk.”

“That’s okay baby, this isn’t about setting a record or anything. Let’s just have fun and be together.”

“I know, but you’d probably be running if I hadn’t come. We’re going to be the last ones to finish. It’s going to be embarrassing.”

“Bekah, that doesn’t mean a thing. I love you and I wanted to run with you. This whole deal was for us to get to be together. That’s the most important thing to me.”

We jogged some more, made the left turn, and then walked most of the way up the hill. When we reached the flat slope at the top, we jogged again. Our talk turned to school and the excitement of Bekah being my math student the next year. As we slowed to walk again, a young American man approached us on a bike.

“Are you two in the race going on today?”

“Yes,” I replied, “is there a problem?”

“No, they just wanted me to check on you. A few people have finished, and you’re pretty far back.”

I wondered how hearing this made Bekah feel, but she didn’t let on that it bothered her. I gazed at her, actually seeing her for the first time that day. And I finally understood the deeper meaning of the two of us being out here, jogging, walking, freezing, but together. I took her hand, and through lips so cold they could hardly move I said, “Bekah, I’m so glad we did this.”

“I am too, Dad,” she said, and then the air filled with snowflakes.

We crossed the finish line and made our way to the fitness center. “What’s taking so long to get started?” hung in the air as Bekah and I entered the room.

The guy who had given the announcements at the beginning of the race was standing, once again, in front of the crowd.

“We’ve got medallions for the first and second finishers in each age bracket.”

Bekah and I suppressed a giggle. The last runner had finished almost twenty minutes before we did. We probably would have left, but we weren’t about to walk away from the hot dog buns we’d frozen our buns off to earn.

The men were first. One at a time they rose to receive their recognition. The women’s awards followed. We watched the first five winners receive their medallions. One more, and the only thing between us and home was a bag of buns.

“And the second place medal in the women’s C class goes to Rebekah Rush.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. There must have been only two runners in Bekah’s class. Applause and cheers accompanied her to the front. I watched in awe as the medallion was hung around her neck. When she turned around, I swear her smile lit up the room. I hugged her when she got back to me, still fingering her prize. We parted to arms length and she put the medal in front of my face so I could get a better look. I just shook my head and hugged her again.

While we had been distracted, concluding remarks were said and everyone started for the door, grabbing their hot dog buns on the way out. A few minutes later, we were on our way home.

I spoke first.

“Bekah, I’m so proud of you! It was so much fun to watch you receive your medal. You hung in there and finished. You wouldn’t have been awarded if you hadn’t finished.”

“But Dad, you don’t have a medallion.”

Her concern for my feelings was more than I could bear. I steadied my breathing.

“Oh Bekah, don’t you understand? You are my medallion.”

“I love you, Dad.”

Insecurities and Undulations

My wife and I are swimmers.

Well, I say swimmers. I should have said, "My wife and I swim." When a local college built a new sports facility and offered community memberships, we joined without a sign-up fee. We fully expected to look like runway models in a few weeks because swimming, we had heard, was the best fitness activity possible. We have rights to the entire place, including the climbing wall, weight room, walking track, basketball gyms, and tennis courts; but we just swim. Like we were ever going to climb a wall. Hell, I make my wife do that at home all the time for free.

It took the longest time for the Grand Opening. We'd get emails about the event--each one advertising a later date, the last one inviting us to walk through the half completed facilities. For weeks after that, Cindy and I had that look on our faces dogs get when they see their humans reaching for the treats.

On the morning the pool opened, we left the bed at 5:30 and were in the water at 6. Our plan was for me to leave for school from there, so I put teaching clothes in my brand new sports bag just for swimmers which looked suspiciously like the bags for non-swimmers at only twice the cost. It wouldn't be until after the swim that I would realize I had forgotten to pack my panties and would dash home, commando, or free balling, I think it's called, before making my way to the school.

What we subjected the real swimmers to, that first morning, is probably criminal public behavior in several states. Cindy actually wore a swim suit; I wore shorts over spandex undies, leftovers from my running days. We were the homeless equivalent compared to the sleek look of the college-sponsored children's swim team.

We stripped to our swim wear in front of their parents, members of the fancier, more expensive fitness club across town, every one. Then we jumped in, sharing the only available lane and gasped and choked the twenty-five yards to the other end. We held onto the side having completely given up on speech, so desperate were we for oxygen, while elementary-school flip-turning racers splashed water in our faces. After what seemed like twenty minutes, we let go and undulated our way to the other side like two geriatric frogs working their way through a sewer pipe.

That was two years ago.

We're stronger and our heart lung machines are better, but the most noticeable change is our swim suits. Cindy's hasn't changed all that much, although hers are nicer. And I totally understand her feeling that if she's going to be in a swimsuit in front of others then her suit, especially at those prices, ought to take on as much responsibility as possible.

My suit has changed too. My hands continually caught the baggy legs of my old swim suit and Cindy suggested a long-leg Speedo, which is the only kind I’d ever wear. When we swam in The Netherlands, a European family would always show up with a Speedo-wearing Grandpa. His suit looked sprayed on, never completely covered his butt, and held his gibblies in a rock-climber’s grip. And then too, there was the hair, coarse and curly; think Chewbaka. Of course, you only saw that when his floppy gut wasn’t in the way.

My Speedo wasn’t as bad, but we were concerned it would give me something Cindy has always referred to as “penile projection.” She coined this term years ago while watching Olympic wrestling. Even the casual observer can see the size, shape, and religion of the competitors. I imagine it’s a practice designed to help spectators decide who to root for. I’ve always cheered for the under-endowed.

I put on my Speedo and was immediately faced with a decision about my thing. I don’t think women have this problem, I mean, ladies bumps point forward, for the most part. I’m sure there’s the odd lady out there whose one boob points any way it wants while the forward-pointing boob hangs next to it, perturbed, embarrassed. And then women reach that age when they point…well…down. But sometimes guys can look like they’re pointing the way to San Jose and I not only didn’t want to point, I didn’t want the lump at all. However, my concerns turned out to be a moot point; when I landed in the freezing water my thing couldn’t be distinguished from the hair.

We’ve met some interesting people in the pool. Of course we don’t know any of their names. We talk about them through a technique used by fiction writers. A character will describe another character and include something like big ears, and from then on he’ll just call him Dumbo.

Not long after we started swimming, an elderly woman began showing up at the same time we did. She had blonde hair, skinny legs, a tiny butt, and huge boobs. The second or third time we were in the pool together I noticed a small stud in her nose; she’s been Nose-Ring Granny ever since.

Perfume Lady shows up smelling like she showers in Eau du Toilette. I can almost see the cloud she walks in—like Pig Pen from the Peanuts cartoon. Whatever she wears must be oil-based. The other day I swam in the lane next to her. It was like swimming around the Exxon Valdez.

The most interesting person we’ve come across in the pool is the lady we affectionately refer to as Drowning Woman. The first time I saw her swimming I thought she was having a seizure. I watched, desperately trying to remember what little CPR I’d learned.

Her swimming style would best be represented by the word "quiver." I think she’s attempting the breast stroke, the one where the legs kick together like a frog’s would. I saw a couple of frogs kick like she does back in 1971, but they had gotten hold of some bad acid. The whole stroke takes about one second. One day I acted like I had water in my eyes just so I could watch her. I swear, she breathed 43 times in 25 yards. Just imagine a bobble head doll in the pool.

But Drowning Woman has never needed our help; she’s just got her own style. I guess we all do. I’m sure real swimmers look over into my lane and wonder about the terrible accident from which I’m recovering. A few weeks ago, one of those real swimmers was in the lane next to me.

He looked about my age, but that’s where our noticable similarities ended. I spotted him before he jumped in—five-ten, about 225. Whenever anyone swims in the lane next to me I always remind myself that it’s not a competition. You know, like the Normandy invasion wasn’t a competition.

I’d been swimming for over ten minutes when he jumped in. I was in full stride and as I turned at the wall, he was just putting his goggles on. I pushed away thinking what a piece of cake this was going to be.

Then he touched the other wall before I did.

I couldn’t believe it. I’d already warmed up; he was just starting. I’d been swimming for two years, and he had to be forty pounds overweight. It looked like he only kicked when he remembered to, which wasn’t often. And his arm speed wasn’t as fast as mine. But oh how he could glide. In fact, he spent the next twenty-five minutes repeatedly gliding past me.

We swam in adjoining lanes several days before our schedules worked out so we were in the locker room together. That can always be an uncomfortable moment. It's not a huge deal if I see another dude's wang, but it is important that no other guy thinks I want to look, even if I secretly do. Again, women have it so easy. They wear their credentials on their chests. Say to a group of women, "Y'all queue up according to breast size," and they wouldn't even have to speak to each other. But for guys that's not possible. And it wouldn't do any good to ask questions. No one tells the truth anyway. I'm suddenly reminded of my favorite joke from junior high. "Yeah, I'm seven inches, WHEN I FOLD IT IN HALF!"

So, one morning after a swim, I introduced myself to the guy, waiting of course until we both had our underwear on, an unwritten law of the men's locker room. “You can look at my pink bits, but you can’t talk to me while you do it.” This is probably the reason my old girlfriends turned on the water when they peed in the next room. I could know what they were doing in there, but if I could hear it they would be mortified. So I complimented him on how well he swam. I can't remember exactly what I said, but I tried not to make it sound like, "Geez, you swim really well for a fat guy."

"Oh, thanks" he said, "I started swimming when I was four and swam competitively through college." Although you can see a whole lot of the people in the pool, you never really know who's in the lane beside you.

Speaking of seeing a lot of people, along with possibly being the most strenuous exercise, swimming has also got to be the most sensual. Once the goggles are on, everything under the water is crystal clear. Where else can I go to get fit and look at so much skin? "Look at so much" is my pet phrase for gawking like a creepo.

But sometimes I simply cannot help myself. Last summer a co-ed got in the lane next to me wearing a two piece. She must have lost a little weight since be bought the suit because at some point I ended up behind her and by the time she touched the wall, I was looking at most of her butt was showing.

I never know what to do in these situations. Is it wrong to mention it? "Hey girl, you got a real pretty butt." Do I help her cover up? She didn't swim much longer, but I must confess I was behind her the entire time.

A similar thing happened again just last week. The college team was in the pool and a single geezer-lane was open right next to a lane with three females. Of course the girls whizzed right by me in their racing suits, which are usually pretty modest, although I occasionally see one, I think it's called a high cut, where the leg holes come up to the swimmer's armpit. But these three suits were appropriate and pretty modest, almost, except for, well, the blue one.

The girls swam single file and passed me one at a time, not quite at the speed of light, and did their individual flip turn at the wall. I didn't intend on taking notice each time they passed but it was late afternoon and we were under the afternoon sun’s rays, which were reflected in my face each time the girls swam by. This is when I noticed something odd about the blue swim suit. For some unexplained but glorious reason, the natural swimming motion caused the fabric, which to this point had been covering the left butt cheek, to creep up toward her crack. In no time her entire cheek was uncovered. It looked like she was swimming in a body-thong; or half a body-thong.

I think I swam the hardest I ever have for several lengths. And then suddenly practice was over and the girls got out of the pool. Then Perfume Lady showed up and I struggled for breath until I too had had enough.

As for our bodies, well, when we began swimming we eagerly awaited a physical transformation. We dreamed of sleek figures that would require an entirely new wardrobe. But, because we were swimming we thought we could eat anything and we did. Well, we didn't really eat anything. We ate everything. We'd swim and then eat at the Chinese buffet restaurant. All you can eat became don’t stop till you’ve got Who Flung Duck in your nostrils. We became very good at this.

Every time someone finds out we swim they always rave a little, "Oh that's so great! That's so good for you!" as though we'd just quit snorting cocaine. It is pretty good for us, I guess, although we aren't ever going to get those new bodies. We'll have to settle for being a little stronger, and possibly living a little longer, albeit in the bodies we've got right now.

Picture Credit: http://amysrobot.com/files/synch_swimming.JPG