Wednesday, July 27, I headed out the door about 5PM. On the way out, I hollered, “I’m going for a short run.” That’s when my youngest (the yellow shirt boy) asked if he could ride his bike along with me. Knowing that I will be approaching the years when he doesn’t want to hang out with Mom, and the fact that he picks up my pace, I readily agreed.
And so I followed the boy with the yellow shirt, as we headed along my route. It entailed riding to the bluff, and down the winding sidewalk into the harbor. From there, we took the bridge over to the island, where we covered its entirety. About that time, the yellow shirt boy began to complain that he was tired. He got off his bike and began walking, and even limping a bit. He said that he hurt his leg. I knew we were in trouble, as the remaining one mile or so was all uphill. “Come on yellow shirt boy! You can do this!!”
“Short Run!!” he rebuffed. “This is NOT short.”
That’s when I remembered so abruptly that words like short are relative. Doh!
At mile 4.15, I called my husband. And he drove down to the harbor to pick us up and drive us home. 
Following the yellow shirt boy . . . 
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