A blog by Kelley Myhre.

If I had a dollar for every time Coach Paul yelled, “Kelley, use your arms,” I would have no trouble supporting my caffeine addiction.  I often want to scream back, “What do you expect?”  My arms, like my caffeine habit, are a product of motherhood. Oh the joy kids bring…sleepless nights, potty training, and gooey-peanut-butter-covered-kisses.  You might think a runner would find nothing more sacred than sharing their passion with their progeny. WRONG!

I think Torquemada would feel an evil glee at the sight of the jogging stroller.  I’m almost positive that the jogger can actually be traced to the Inquisition.  After all it is nothing short of torture to ask a rational adult to run miles while pushing a tiny megalomaniac.  That is the life of parents who juggle work, school, and kids while searching for the time to cover more than a few sprints after junior. 

So why do we do it?  Why don’t we just set-up elaborate networks of parents looking to run free?  We do, but time is a complicated thing to manage.  In our zany, fast-paced world sometimes just making it on a run is a small miracle, let alone setting out without our spawn.

For me though, the truth is I want my daughter to understand the importance of running in our lives.  American’s are facing a growing epidemic of girth with exercise pushed to the wayside.  One of my parental goals is to teach her that activity (like recycling) is at the core of a healthy life and a healthy world. So I run…and I push.

You’ve seen me and my fellow jogging stroller prisoners. We are usually (hopefully) at the back of the pack.  We wait far from the speakers, barely able to hear the national anthem.  When the race starts we stand around for another minute before we slowly make our way towards the gate.  It is usually three to five minutes before we step over the starting mat.  We’re cursed both by those passing us and those we pass. We push.  We trudge.  We hand over snacks and juice.  We retrieve dropped toys, while discussing the merits of the letter “B”.  We turn a simple Saturday 5K into an adventure race filled with exotic sights and sounds.  We are usually praying that we can make it through the race without a bathroom stop or a temper-tantrum.

I don’t mean to make us out to sound like saints…oh no!  We are a cut-throat crew who can be brutal to our fellow runners.  Woe to the runner who wanders too close to our front wheel in an attempt to slice through the crowd.  I have been known to bark at Rhiannon during the last half mile when she tells me she want something.  If you were with me on Thanksgiving you would have heard the loving words, “Kiddo, you need to sit still and deal for a few more minutes!”  I know…I’m the next June Cleaver.  But we made the choice to have kids (and to wake them up), so we make the best of our funny little lives with our funny little creatures.

If you are facing the impending jogging stroller purchase, then much like with shoes and watches, do your homework and take a few test runs.  Everyone has different needs and various expectations.  Me…I’m a B.O.B girl.  I like the squishy handle, the adjustable wheels, it is made for taller folks, and there is plenty of storage…’cause when you run with kids, you run with junk.  It also has quick release everything which is a necessity when you drive a clown car.

So…to my fellow runners, I hope you now see us burdened, suffering few with new eyes.  I know we can clog the gate and slow down the run.  Just remember we love this crazy masochistic sport enough to wake-up our kids early (a masochistic event in itself) just to log a few miles and gain a new t-shirt.  We love our torture just as much as we love our kids.  Please, at the next Saturday race just smile at the parents pushing their way through the crowd.  Know that they spend the race feeling like their running uphill both ways. In honor of their suffering make sure you remember to use your arms.