My mom becomes a whole new person when she talks about her glory days of running in high school. There is an unfamiliar spark of anticipation in her storm-cloud blue eyes and her laugh is different, somehow fuller and more bell-like. The pace of her speech quickens, her words like the rapid succession of pounding feet bouncing up from the track, striding into the homestretch. Her eyes sparkle with an excited and slightly mischievous flash as she recounts her adventures with her teammates on crazy bus rides and the intensity at high-stakes races. You can’t help but feel her tangible passion for the sport emanating from her soul.

It was her zeal that originally convinced me to run. My first race I ever ran was with my mom, where my flustered, insecure eleven year-old self pleaded to slow down, despite my mother’s relentless eagerness. Even then, I could tell that nothing made her happier than sharing her love for running with me.

Since then, my mom has been to nearly all my races throughout middle school and high school- no matter how far she has to travel or how long she has to wait to watch me run for a mere few minutes. Before the races she must miss due to her occupation as a full-time physician, I always sneak away from the team tent to call her. She always knows just what to say- sometimes I truly think she understands me more than I understand myself.

For a span of three difficult years, I experienced an unknown health problem that would cause me to completely pass out when running too hard. It would always occur at important races, preventing me from qualifying for states or reaching my full potential. My memory of the incidents is foggy, but the one image that I could never forget was the look of sorrow etched across my mom’s face as I was carried off the course time and time again. She was one of the few who saw through my “I’m fine” façade and truly felt with me the disappointment and fear I was experiencing. She understood that sometimes the things we love the most can also be the things that destroy us. It was thanks to her relentless search for a solution that I was finally diagnosed and treated.

Although she was nationally ranked runner in high school, she has never placed any pressure on me. She has never yelled anything un-encouraging or screamed at me for a poor race. Rather, no matter how I place or what my time is, she envelopes me in a warm, sweaty hug and whispers “I just love to watch you run.”

Every time I run, I know that my mom sees a hint of herself in me. With ribbon tightly bound around a long ponytail, both of us share the same intense look toeing the starting line. I see her watching when I’m joking around with teammates, and I know she hears a bit of her past in my ringing laugh. When I come home from practice, dripping with sweat and with a flushed red face, I see the gleam of nostalgia sparking in her eyes as she remembers her days training around the oval. Whenever the gun goes off and my legs bound from the starting line, I can feel her heartbeat race alongside mine.

Every season I learn something new about myself or about the world. This past track season, amongst lessons in mental preparedness and letting go of fear, I was reminded of the fleeting nature of time as I plunge into my senior year. The lack of time means that gratitude for those who have shaped who I am as a runner and as a person must be expressed with urgency- no “thank you” must go unsaid. Before I know it, my high school running will be but a collection of tattered newspaper articles, faded medals, and tucked away memories. My mom’s enduring love for the sport and unconditional love for me serve as motivators to make this final year my best one yet.

             Best of luck to all in summer training!

~Dr. Patricia Poling, B.S. Harvard University 1991, M.D. Columbia University 1995. Was a distance standout in High School and competed in the 1988 Boston Marathon and 1993 NYC Marathon.