When it’s over and people ask me how I trained for the 2011 Boston Marathon, I’ll tell them I ran with my daughter. “Did she run it, too?” they’ll ask. I won’t tell them she was only fourteen months old at the time, or that she spent the entire training season being pushed in a BOB stroller. I’ll let them wonder if she ran the marathon with me, let the image linger in their minds of the two of us running side-by-side. It’s not necessarily untrue.

Morning in Central Park with Miralena. Credit: Jeff Smith.

I ran my first marathon in 2002 when I was thirty years old. It took me nine marathons to improve enough to qualify for the nation’s oldest marathon in Boston and even then I qualified by a mere twelve seconds. Since that first marathon, running has become an important part of my life. Running centers me, grounds me, helps me think, and gives me time to sort through day-to-day craziness. I can work out problems or craft stories or plan my today or my tomorrow. Back when being a father was still just a dream, I envisioned running with my daughter, pushing her through Central Park. The vision came true within a month of bringing her home.

At first, running and pushing a stroller was hard. The stroller itself weighed eighteen pounds, the girl in it twenty pounds. Add to that the accoutrements that go along with a baby: diaper bag, food, formula, toys. That first day, I felt like a hippo trudging through a lake. My breathing was labored, my legs were lead rods, my arms ached. How could my arms hurt while I was running? It didn’t take me long to realize I was pushing the stroller wrong, that I should push not with my arms but with my legs. It was still hard but I was building strength in my legs and my stomach and my arms.

Miralena loved it. She offered delightful cheers as we passed other runners and sometimes chided me when another runner passed us. She laughed at the water as we ran along the Hudson River and more often than not she’d fall asleep, a sure sign that she was comfortable in the stroller. When she started day care at the Child and Family Center, I continued my tradition of running to work one day per week. It was easier to run with the stroller if only for the fact that I didn’t have to plan my clothes in advance. I could just push what I’d need for the day.

As we continued to run together I found myself growing stronger. Pushing the stroller became easier every week. When I ran my first race in the fall, a short five miler in Central Park, my legs felt quicker, my back stronger. I sailed along the course (sans child) as though my feet weren’t even touching the ground. I beat my personal record by nearly a minute. Maybe running with a baby wasn’t so bad after all.

There were other benefits to running with a child. Every time someone smiled at me or laughed at the antics of Miralena thrashing about in the stroller I got a little lift. I’ve started to give thumbs up and encouragement to other mother-runners or father-runners I see out there. That, too, lifts my spirits. I feel bigger than myself, feel as though I’m giving something back to all the runners who ever gave something to me, even just a little nod. We understand each other, we runners, and those of us who run with our children are a special breed of crazy runner.

The Boston Marathon will be run on April 18, 2011. Since January I’ve run to work at least twice a week as part of my training, and where six months ago pushing her was a challenge, I now consider it an easy day. I run more slowly when I’m pushing her and together we enjoy the warmth of the afternoon sun on a cool spring day, or the snow drifts piled along the edges of Central Park’s West Drive. She doesn’t sleep in the stroller anymore, but now that the harsh winter is over she enjoys the feel of the air on her face as we cruise along the river or meander through the park. Sometimes she’ll look up and catch sight of me over the canopy and she’ll give me a two-toothed grin that tells me everything I need to know.