Girls Learn About Compassion as Well as Competition

I train my twin 8-year-old daughters for triathlons. It’s a quiz game for their health. Too many wrongs and I risk burned-out, injured kids who blame their low self-esteem on me. Enough right and I’ll get strong, healthy, confident kids who blame their low self-esteem on me.

Today’s challenge is simple: run 1.3 miles--four laps around our block--in less than 16 minutes, then get a new bicycle.

At breakfast, tears drip into Artemis’ cereal. I don’t want this incident thrown in my face at some future trial for bad fathering. I say, “You don’t have to do this, Artemis.”

“I want to,” she whines.

Now I fear her fear. I worry that she’s afraid of failing, that she’s scared she won’t get the bicycle or, worse, that she won’t and her sister, Diana, will.

It’s 60 degrees outside, great running weather. Before the timed run comes a warmup lap. I go outside to stretch.

Artemis emerges wearing a full, hooded winter coat and mittens. “Honey, you’ll be too hot,” I warn.

“I want to wear it.”

She jogs the block whimpering. I follow her, certain there’s a child-welfare agent around every corner.

She turns back onto our street, then lopes to the front of our house, the starting line. She sheds the coat and mittens.

I say go. She takes off like Marion Jones and never looks back. She does the four laps in 15:23. It remains the family record.

Triathlons were not my idea. Artemis and Diana, a.k.a., the goddesses, a.k.a., the g’s, do triathlons because their mother started training for the 2000 Mrs. T’s Triathlon. “That’s not fair,” Artemis said. “Mommy gets to do a triathlon and we don’t?”

A check of Windy City Sports magazine revealed several kids’ triathlons.

Because of my previous, though limited, triathlon experience and manipulative nature, I was designated coach. A few months later, Mom decided triathlons were too much work. But the goddesses wanted to keep training.

They love the “triathlete” identity. Diana tells of a boy in her class who bragged he could run and bicycle and swim better than she. To which she replied, “Have you ever done a triathlon?” ... And, as Diana will tell you, “it made him be quiet, all right; he couldn’t say anything.”

Training is a challenge for all athletes, particularly for those whose peers are braiding their dolls’ hair and watching “Sailor Moon” videos. I motivate my daughters the old-fashioned way: I bribe them.

After each triathlon, they eat whatever they want for a week. Ice cream for breakfast, cookies for dinner.

I ask only, “What flavor would you like?” At the end of the season they get a trip to Six Flags Great America. And I’m always looking for fresh incentives.

We mount our bicycles on a drizzly morning for the 1.5-mile ride to our YMCA. The plan is for them to run on the treadmill and swim laps. Then Mom will escort Artemis home, and Diana and I will ride to the shopping center, where the Speedo Store is having a 50% off sale. Diana has outgrown her swimsuits.

The ride to the Y is difficult. Though normally comfortable riding in the street, today Diana is nervous about the wet conditions and asks to ride on the sidewalk.

The treadmill training, however, goes wonderfully. On the streets, they whine after 15 minutes of jogging. On a treadmill, they run uphill for half an hour and think it’s fun--in part because they usually are the only kids in the cardio-workout room and thus feel special.

At the end of their workout, we notice the weather has degraded. The rain is harder. I am in no mood to ride and shiver on wet streets. And I know Diana will whine and suffer throughout.

“We can’t ride to the store today.” I declare, “Look outside; it’s miserable.”

“Let’s drive there,” Diana pleads.

“Parking costs so much,” I say. “It’ll make the swimsuits way too expensive.”

“Let’s take the bus then,” she offers.

“It’s too many buses to take, and we’re not dressed to stand at bus stops in this weather.”

Diana thinks for a moment, then states with determination. “Dad, I’m desperate. I’ve got to have new swimsuits. I don’t care if it’s cold and raining, I wanna ride to the store.”

*

Mom and Artemis head home. Diana and I roll Gold Coast-ward.

She rides like a pint-sized Lance Armstrong. Her speed is steady. She splits the bicycle lane evenly. She stays to the right even when it forces her through a puddle that makes a “lake” in her shoes. She remains of excellent cheer.

At the Speedo store, she wallows in swimsuits and strikes poses in the mirror. I’ve discovered a new motivator: shopping.

*

We are in Ohio for their second triathlon, the Sylvania (Ohio) Super Kids. For their age group, triathlons begin with a 100-yard swim.

To my dismay, this swim is in open water, a lake. Their first tri was in a pool, and I have stupidly assumed that they’d all be. I have not trained them for open water. They don’t know how to swim straight by aiming for the buoys.

Within seconds of entering the water, they are off course. They zigzag the route, wasting time and energy. Lifeguards in rowboats nudge them toward the general direction of the right path.

They exit the water dead last because I failed them.

They stay last throughout the 3K bicycle leg and 1K run. But every picture from that race shows the goddesses having the smiling and laughing times of their athletic lives.

After the g’s age group finishes, the 12-through 16-year-olds race. They race farther, but by the time Mom and I stash the goddesses’ gear, the fastest of them are finished. Mom and I and the goddesses are now just hanging near the finish line as the slower teens come in.

A chubby boy puffs and shuffles toward the finish line. Artemis is first to cheer. “Yea! Way to go, you’re almost there!”

We all join in. “Good job! You did it!”

The effect on the boy is immediate. His stride lengthens and springs. He smiles and crosses the finish line like Olympic gold.

*

We’re on to something. Our mission is clear. We will change kids’ races. They struggle, we cheer and they soar to their finish. The goddesses beam. To kid after kid they give their enthusiasm, energy and strength. They don’t merely compete but improve the races of maybe 20 other athletes. At 8 they see vividly that they make a difference.

For parents, it gets no better.

Nonetheless, this being America, I assume my daughters will eventually sue me for bad parenting. I hope I’m wealthy enough to make the suit worthwhile.

As I weep through painful cross-examination, their lawyer will flash a long list of sins: The time Diana flew from the jogging stroller because I forgot to strap her in. When I snapped at Artemis for being slow, not knowing she had the flu. To these and more I will tearfully plead “guilty.”

But then it’s their turn.

If pale, wheezing sisters wobble to the stand, I will be deservedly doomed. But, if fit, dynamic twins bound forward to denounce me, I win, no matter what the verdict.