What you do makes a difference, and you have to decide what kind of difference you want to make.
~Jake Goodall
“Are you signing up for the Fun Run?” my friend and fellow teacher, Jessica, asked.
I shook my head. “No, races aren’t really my thing.”
“It’s not a race,” she said. “It’s just a Fun Run.”
“The words ‘fun’ and ‘run’ do not belong in the same sentence.”
She rolled her eyes. “It raises money for the school — the school where you teach. The school the children you claim to love attend. They’re raising money to buy new playground equipment. Don’t you want your kids to have a nice, safe playground?”
“Really, Jess? You’re going to play that card?”
“I was just kidding. I know you love your kids. But I don’t see why this is such a big deal to you.”
“I don’t run. I never have,” I said. “Even as a kid, I avoided running. I’m slow, and I look weird when I do it. So I don’t run, especially not in front of people.”
“But the money goes to the school.”
“I’ll write a check.”
“You’re a single mom. You don’t have any money. The only way you can help is if you run in the race.”
“Can I walk?”
Jess shrugged. “Sure. You’ll probably be the only one, but that’s fine.”
I sighed. “Great. That wouldn’t be embarrassing or anything. I’d only finish the race two hours after everyone else.”
“Diane, it’s not a race. It’s just a Fun Run.”
“Running is not fun for me.” I said the words slowly and clearly so she would understand.
“You’ll be the only teacher not participating.”
“That couldn’t be true. Mrs. Jones is running? The same Mrs. Jones who has needed to retire for at least the last decade?”
Jess nodded, triumph in her eyes. “Mrs. Jones is running.”
She had me, and she knew it. If my septuagenarian co-worker could do it, I’d better at least try. “Sign me up,” I said, already regretting it.
On my way home from work that day, I calculated how many days until the race… I mean, the Fun Run. As if calling it that made it any less torturous.
The race was scheduled for the second Saturday in May. The hope was that we would raise tons of money, and the new playground equipment could be installed over summer vacation.
I fully supported the idea of the new playground. I just didn’t think the end justified the means. Why couldn’t we hold a bake sale or sell T-shirts? Neither of those things is embarrassing in the least.
Many years ago, I discovered something about myself: I’m motivated by the avoidance of embarrassment. Some people will work hard to get something good. I’m more motivated by the idea of avoiding something bad — like losing the race to someone who graduated high school with my grandmother.
I only had two months to prepare.
Fortunately, spring had come early to my Midwestern town, and going outside wasn’t completely unbearable. I asked my kids if they wanted to ride bikes. This usually meant that they would ride their bikes up and down the sidewalk in front of our house, and I would watch from a lawn chair in our yard.
Imagine their surprise when I began to jog alongside them, determined to keep up. Yes, I was determined to keep pace with a four-year-old who was riding a Dora the Explorer bike with pink training wheels.
Less than ten minutes later, I was sitting in the lawn chair, my face red from the exertion.
It was beyond embarrassing, but I knew I couldn’t give up. The Not-So-Fun Run was looming.
The kids and I developed a daily habit of them bike riding and me jogging beside them. Okay, I was behind them, and it was more like a hobble. As I huffed and puffed through each session, I hoped none of my neighbors happened to peek out their windows and see me. They’re good people; they’d probably call an ambulance for me.
It wasn’t pretty, but ten days in, I stayed on my feet until the kids were tired of riding. The lawn chair had beckoned, but I stayed strong.
The kids and I went out for ice cream to celebrate.
One day, about three weeks into our riding/jogging/hobbling routine, my son announced that he was done riding for the day. I was shocked to realize that I wasn’t completely exhausted yet. The kids sat in the lawn chairs and watched me jog up and down the sidewalk a few more times.
There might have been ice cream that night, too.
Finally, the day of the Not-So-Fun Run arrived. The kids and I went to the park where they were holding the event. I got in line to get my number and timing chip.
“Are you a runner or a walker?” the volunteer asked.
My eyebrows shot up. “Are a lot of people walking?”
“Yeah, like way more than half of them.”
My hopes soared. Walking wasn’t at all embarrassing. I could walk the race without even breaking a sweat.
But then I remembered all the training I’d done. I looked at my kids, who’d been so proud of my progress. I had to do it.
“I’m a runner,” I told the volunteer.
It wasn’t pretty, but I finished that Not-So-Fun Run with the second-slowest time of all the runners. I think a few of the walkers beat me. Maybe I should have been embarrassed by my time, but all I felt was pride at having finished.
Mrs. Jones came in sixth place. After that, people stopped asking her when she was going to retire.
The race raised a few thousand dollars, and new playground equipment was installed that summer. That next year, every time I had recess duty, I remembered that my triumphant run had helped put it there.
— Diane Stark —