Running with the Devil

Well, here's a post I've very much been not wanting to write, which probably means it's one that needs to be written. I haven't cared to write it because, well, it will make me look like quite the heel (running pun only somewhat intended). But since I spend a lot of time on this blog ruminating in a pollyanna-ish kind of way about how wonderful running is, I suppose I should also point some of its potential downsides.

Like everything else in this world, running offers all kinds of temptation to sin, with pride and vanity being the most obvious examples.  But sometimes unexpected and unusual temptations can present themselves, too. Here's my story about falling down —morally, that is — while on a run.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and I offered to take my two oldest children with me to the local track, which they love. While I run my 20 laps or so, they usually play in the bleachers, or on the football field, and have a grand old time. Well, on this Saturday when we arrived a peewee football tournament was underway, with two or even three games going on simultaneously on the field in the middle of the track. "How charming," I thought. I've run around the track during these games before, and it's always been positively Norman Rockwell-esque, as I've enjoyed watching the young ballers play while I get in my five miles. My kids sat down to watch the games, and I put on my headphones, anticipating a delightfully relaxing run.

It didn't work out that way. On lap 1, a bunch of youth cheerleaders were standing on part of the track, doing their routine while the game progressed in back of them. So I ran behind them, politely, I thought, so as not to obstruct the view of any parents who were trying to watch them.

Much to my surprise, when I approached the same area on lap 2, I was met by Cheerleading Mom.

"Could you please not run in front or behind of the cheerleaders?" she asked.

"It has to be be one or the other," I replied.

"Well, could you not run at all?"

"No."

Hey, I'm a taxpayer, darnit. Can't tell me I can't use the track I help pay for. Puffed up on that powerful cocktail of endorphins and adrenaline, I wasn't going to let some Cheerleading Mom tell me what to do. What kind of "sport" is youth cheerleading anyway? I kept on running.

Next time around, the girls were milling about in the middle of the track, so I ran through the bottom of the bleachers, thinking maybe that would be less controversial. Apparently not. When I came by for lap 3, Cheerleading Mom came to meet me, and I asked her if she would prefer for me to run in front of or behind the girls. Neither, she said, "It's just so distracting." To which I replied, "There's a football game going on, and I'm the distraction?"

On lap 4, Cheerleading Mom met me again. "They just announced over the PA system that only players and coaches are allowed on the field," she said. "So you'll have to leave." But I came right back with a smart-aleck reply. "I'm not on the field," I said. (Mr. Literal strikes again.) I kept on going.

On the next lap, I started to have my doubts. Having been wearing my headphones, I never actually heard the PA announcement. Maybe I really was now flouting the rules. Maybe if I kept this up, they'd send a security guard to drag me out. Or maybe Cheerleading Dad would come slug me —neither of which would be good for my kids to witness. So, still fuming, I rounded up the kiddos and went home. There, looking for someone to tell me how right I was and how unjustly I had been treated (but also wondering if maybe I really had been acting like a jerk) I told my wife what happened.

The response wasn't the one of instant affirmation I was hoping for. "It sounds like you were being kind of dismissive of her," she said. Well, yeah, I suppose. "You've got to understand, for them, cheerleading is a big deal. It's like if someone tried to run through one of our daughter's ballet recitals." Oh, I never thought of it like that. "This might have been their one big day all year, and you can run anytime, anywhere." Ouch.

And then I realized: I had never tried to take in Cheerleading Mom's perspective at all. So assured of my own righteousness, I never even listened, let alone made any effort to understand. I didn't even have the decency to disagree politely. I just grunted and ran right past her.

Sometimes it takes a wife to make things clear.

It's never fun to come face to face with one's own sinfulness, but I knew what I had to do. I showered and then went back to the track to look for Cheerleading Mom. She was no longer there, but I was directed to the middle school, where she was supposedly setting up for a dance. When I got there, I found a whole group of Cheerleading Moms, who all knew who I was. She wasn't among them, but they very graciously accepted my apology and told me they would pass it along.

With that, I went home, feeling about two inches tall.

If there's a silver lining, it's that my five-year-old son was utterly fascinated about the idea of his dad going to go apologize to someone. So, maybe that made a positive impression on him. After all, God uses even our sinfulness as a means toward our salvation. And on that Saturday, I gave Him plenty of it to work with.