“Dad, you broke my legs! You broke my legs!” My six-year-old son accused me of me this the other day. No, I had not run him over with a car. I had not kicked him. I hadn’t even touched him. Against my wife’s recommendation, I had invited him to do a half-marathon-distance bike ride with a modest 655 feet of elevation gain, according to Strava, which was almost entirely dedicated to a short but significant hill toward the end. I ran while he rode his little one-speed bike, crashed twice, cut his knees, and apparently broke his legs on that final daunting climb to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. But it was a major success overall for both of us. For me: I never got angry or frustrated with my son (regretfully, I am not always patient with my kids when we do physical activities like exercise together—I get frustrated sometimes when I deal with their expected limitations and resulting complaints). For him: it was a major step. He felt like a champion afterward and had learned to push the limits of his mental and physical abilities. (I am actually not sure if a 13.1-mile bike ride with a decently large climb is a huge accomplishment for a six-year-old, but I was sure proud of him!)
Here are a few things that helped make this bike ride/run successful—along with a few things that could have made it better.
I ran while my son biked. I am running a trail marathon in Death Valley soon, and I have been struggling to find time for long training runs. I feel better about dedicating time to hours of exercise when I can make it daddy-son/daughter time. If I forced my son to run a half marathon with me at my pace, I surely would have broken his legs. He is getting a little too old for enjoying the jogging stroller, but he can bike, and as long as hills aren’t involved, his little legs can usually keep him moving faster than my pace. So I invited him to come. I had a healthy optimism that he could do the miles and even the hills up to my parents’ house if I was patient. My wife’s response: “There is no way!” Her comment was expected. Our six-year-old has proven himself to be a major wimp in physically taxing or painful experiences. I love him, but he would probably cry under the physical pain and impact of being hit with a paper airplane. But his wimpiness didn’t deter me.
I motivated (bribed) with Pokémon cards. “Do you want to go on a long bike ride!?” I like to provide my kids, every once in a while, with a reward for getting out of their comfort zones (i.e. a bribe, but I don’t love that term). Perhaps I should do this less, but a short discussion later, my boy and I had negotiated a deal in which I would buy him a couple Pokémon cards in exchange for him accomplishing the bike ride successfully, without giving up and with crying. When I was a kid, we bought and traded basketball cards or other sports cards. Times have changed, and the right motivation for my little guy was the prospect of being able to hold in his little hands two prized Pokémon cards he has been eyeing. In the end, due to his small complaints while summiting the small hill, he volunteered to only be entitled to one card (the coveted Vaporeon), not two, since he hadn’t conquered the hill without complete complaint. (He actually briefly started to cry, which technically voided our deal, but I felt justified in buying him the one card, which he now treasures hopefully more than he would have otherwise after the fun memory he made earning it.)
We had good company. My six-year-old is in love with our dog, a one-year-old vizsla. I had this trusty pup on a leash, which hopefully made the journey more fun for him and provided more motivation. It seemed to have this effect. Kids certainly benefit from the peer pressure of friends, and they also like to succeed among their peers, and I think maybe kids feel the same healthy pressure from their dogs. Maybe not. My boy also had me there as good, supportive company. I talked with him, encouraged him, and was there as his dad, one on one with him on a long bike ride where no other kids or people could interrupt. I’m sure this time and companionship has benefits to my boy that I don’t realize—and to me as well.
We dealt with some falls. My boy turned a corner on some sidewalk covered in pine needles. This was more of a danger than I had expected. The ground was almost as slick as ice, my boy’s wheels coming right out from under him. He had a meltdown, as expected, but I calmly held him and encouraged him to go forward and praised him when his little tears stopped falling and his little legs started turning again. I didn’t force him to be a man about it, but I didn’t coddle him. I think each kid needs the right balance of love and encouragement when they fight physical pain on adventures like this, and I believe I found the balance under the circumstances. On our way back, he had a second fall. He is not very skilled on his little bike (more reason to keep at it), and a small dip and rise in a dirt trail sent him back into the ground. His world had again fallen in, but I again gave this six-your-old (almost seven-year-old) the physical comfort he needed. I held him for a few moments while he cried, and then I gently pushed him along. Interestingly, if this fall had involved my five-year-old, no comfort beyond a “good job” would have been needed. Every kid is different, and I’m learning to be a better dad.
I provided a good challenge with permission to fail. I talked up the hill, and every time we encountered a slight incline, my boy was sure that we had encountered the hill. “Is this the hill?!” When I kept answering that we had not reached “the hill,” he was a little distraught at first and probably rather demoralized over time. In retrospect, I think he had more determination to beat this hill than I realized and than he let on, but I didn’t push him to conquer the hill. I gave him permission to walk up the hill, which is fine and probably expected based on the fact that his one-speed bike isn’t really made for climbing. I really should get him a better bike with gears proper for summiting hills. When we finally reached the hill, I verbally encouraged him to do his best, but when he started to break down and cry, I didn’t push him. I told him it was totally fine to walk, and I even started walking with him—and this was before he announced that I had broken his legs. Something amazing happened. My little about-to-burst-into-tears-boy suddenly burst past me on his bike. I was blown away. Whenever I push this guy, he wants to freeze. Strangely, when I gave him permission to give up, he found that second burst that propelled him beyond what he thought he could do. Although he gave up about a minute later and wanted to cry again (it is a decently tough hill), he had shown more strength. I’ll take it.
A good destination and intermission. Any physically exhausting journey is more exciting and manageable if the end destination merits the pain. Grandma really knows how to pamper my kids, so my boy’s little legs likely found more strength when considering how much love she’d shower on him when we reached the top of the hill and arrived. The praise was perfect: “I can’t believe you biked all the way up here! That is so impressive!” We rested our legs and minds, benefited from Grandma’s usual offers for food and good cooking, and played dodgeball in the backyard with the rest of the kids, who met us there by car. My wife dropped them off. My more successful rides with my kids (or runs when they are passengers in a jogging stroller) usually include a great destination or site along the way, such as a nice playground.
We enjoyed a downhill cruise home (the “victory lap”). When my wife picked us up, I told my boy that I was going to run home, but he could come with me if he wanted. No pressure. I gave him an easy out. He surprised me by joining me. While the rest of the family returned home in car seats and booster seats (except my wife—she’s a big girl), he cruised on his rickety bike back down to our home, a distance of just over six miles. It was all downhill, and he was much faster than me, and he felt like my superior, leading the way. It was a good victory lap that helped him understand the literal and metaphorical benefits of conquering the mountain. The first half of the 13.1 miles was hellish to him, I am sure, but the second half was a sweet reward for all the hard work. He glowed a little more warmly than normal.