from the archives: when the wheels come off (this is not a metaphor)

Over the next few months, I will be reposting some of my previously published newsletter essays here on the blog. This story, oh my gosh, you just can’t make this stuff up.

Summer 2022

As soon as the email came through announcing the event, I knew it was time. Our family, the motley crew of eight that we are, was ready for our first 5K race. 

Or, I was going to force everyone to pretend we were ready, because I really wanted to do this.

Either way, I signed us up. All of us. The baby and two toddlers and a very adventurous boy who has no category for social rules like lines, and big kids who will surely be so hot they are going to die and can’t walk anymore! by the second mile. Plus a bad knee, a borrowed double stroller, and another very questionable double stroller that has been a beloved part of our family since it was handed down to us in 2014. 

It was all going to be great. 

And it was. Mostly.

We showed up to the race with one expectation: get every member of our family across the finish line. My mom came with us so we had an extra adult, and that meant Alex could run the race, while the rest of us could walk it. As soon as we unloaded the strollers we realized that the one we borrowed the night before from a friend had flat tires that we didn’t even bother to look at before throwing it in our trunk because that’s absolutely on brand for the kind of preparation Alex and I bring to things. A stranger had a pump in his car, thank you Lord. The stroller we own had a front tire that was so out of sorts it came down at an angle, where it should have come down straight, and has for the better part of year. This has generally been fine as long as I’m extremely judicious at bumps and curbs and don’t need to change directions too quickly – you know, like one might need to do in a busy 5K race.

But y’all, the baby is 18 months old. We have no plans for any more children. And I am what some might call “cheap”, which I am fine admitting. I was not buying a new double stroller. It was this well-worn, high-mileage, aged, slightly rusty, beloved double stroller or bust. 

The race horn went off, Alex started running, and my mom and I settled in toward the back of the pack with two strollers – grandma with the borrowed and me with the barely-hanging-on one– and two big kids walking beside us. The race started on grass, which my stroller does not prefer for her joints, and then moved to pavement, thankfully. But that relief was short-lived. The race turned down a hill and every runner and walker – and thus every stroller – had to make their way down about 150 yards of rock and dirt path. 

My poor front tire started squeaking immediately.

As we made our way off the rocky terrain, we settled back onto a paved street but I could feel it as I pushed, something was not right. I mean, something had been not right for a long time, but my triceps had never worked so hard to keep a stroller moving before and you know, that’s not really how pushing a stroller should feel, right? 

Just a short way ahead, we saw the halfway point turnaround, and just as I was rounding the corner, the sound of metal hitting the pavement foretold the final verdict of my “this stroller or bust” declaration.

The front of the stroller fell hard to the ground, stopping all of us dead in our tracks and causing a few dozen gasps from the people around us. The boys were buckled in, they were startled, but just fine. 

The wheel was not. It was on its side in the road next to me. A very clear “bust”.

It’s funny how we spend our entire lives making plans, setting goals, imagining results, and yet it is impossible to foresee every factor that’s going to be tough on an already worn-out front wheel. 

So there I was, 1.5 miles up a road with six children and the only way to get back to the starting line was to make the trek the same way we came. 

So what did I do? I tipped that stroller onto its two back wheels and kept going. It required a good bit more strength, but it wasn't impossible.

Because in spite of what we lost there on the side of the road, we still had two good wheels and I had two good arms and for 1.5 miles, we could make it on what we had.

Funny story about this whole ordeal: Alex actually won the 5K fun run (having no idea we almost died at the halfway point), so the organizers wanted to interview the whole family. 

You guys. 

First of all, I have not yet mentioned that the finish line was covered in bubbles because when you start a bubble machine for the first finisher who makes it across the finish line in – give or take – 20 minutes, and it’s still blowing when the broken stroller makes it across – give or take – an hour later, there was a solid six foot bubble wall we were supposed to cruise on through. Except these bubbles did not dissolve when you ran through them, which maybe I should have realized beforehand, but rather suffocated the poor children strapped in the strollers so our finish was incredibly dramatic. We had to dig the baby out as quickly as we could and he was scared to death, poor guy. 

So there we were with a few angry and sticky babies, and Cannon who had no interest in standing still because he had told me just a moment before that he needed to go potty, and the sweet woman with the microphone and camera had no idea what she was asking when she said, “Can I grab you all for an interview?” 

It’s fine, everything went fine. Alex was gracious and we survived a lost front wheel and a near death by bubbles experience and that alone was reason to smile. Near the end of the interview, Cannon started pulling my hand and our little guy – who one would think would be the quiet one during an on camera interview as he doesn’t say much – as clear as day announced, “I go pee in the tree, mommy!” Well of course he did, that is exactly what I told him he could do right before we stopped for our red carpet moment. 

To pivots and lean backs and using what we have and, of course, honest journalism.