I recently watched my son Levon run his first track meet. On the car ride there, his mom went over his events and tried to pump him up. She emphasized staying hydrated and eating a few things. My sister added, “Treat it like a swim meet.” My toes curled at the comment. Swim meets torture the best of us, and I was ruminating a different sort of experience — something more carefree and less claustrophobic. After a winter swim season, stuck inside, I needed the sun and fresh air.
There are certain places that never change, even as the propulsion of time pushes us forward. By returning to my high school track for this meet, that certainly was the case. Sure, there is more brick. A pavilion has been constructed close to where the 100-yard dash begins. The scoreboard is much bigger, and the main field is now turf, giving off a hint of warm rubber, instead of fresh cut grass. But otherwise, the place itself is basically the same — numbered lanes stretched out in that familiar oval that creates a wave of anticipation and a bit of dread.
We showed up with lawn chairs, ditching the bleachers to sit closer to the finish line where the thump of shoes hit the ground. I stood, leaning up against the fence. It was the precise spot where my dad stood for all of my lacrosse games, most of which I spent on the bench. But this time, he was beside me.
At the end of the track, Levon adjusted his Asics in the blocks and got ready, still figuring out his position, his stance, how to keep a few ounces of fuel in the tank until the end, what to do with all that nervous energy when the gun goes off. I watched him, and then, without meaning to, I looked over at my father.
It’s a strange thing, standing next to someone and realizing you’re looking at two different versions of the same story. Because long before I ever stood against that fence, before I ever knew him as my father, he was on that same track, running hurdles, doing laps, competing.
When I ran on the same course, years later, I didn’t think much about any of that. I wasn’t picturing him on the track or wondering what it meant to follow in his footsteps. Winter track was something I did because I wasn’t sure what else to do. At that age, it feels like the only thing that matters is the moment you’re in. You don’t realize you’re part of something bigger that started before you and will continue long after. You just run.
Yesterday, my son kicked his legs at the blast of the pistol, and for a second, everything felt very still. His stride was long. He pumped his arms. Not perfect, not polished, but all effort. All heart. It could have been my dad out there or even me, but it wasn’t.
No one broadcasts these moments. There’s no drumroll that says pay attention or this matters. No rimshot or cymbal crash. But even without the announcement, I watched closely.
I don’t know if track will stick for Levon. Maybe it’s only a small stop on the way toward something greater or more important. At fourteen, nothing has quite settled yet. His shoes are still loose, and there’s lots more road up ahead.
What I do know is that he’s out there on the course, and I’m leaning on the fence. And beside me is the man who once stood where Levon stands now. Three points on the same line, even if the years between them stretch farther than the track itself.
The race ended quickly, the way they always do. A few seconds of effort, and then it’s over — kids slowing down, looking around, trying to figure out where they finished, whether it was good, whether it was enough. One boy was in tears. Someone yelled, “Mom, can I have some popcorn chicken now?”
My son walked back toward us, not triumphant, not defeated. Just thinking, the way all young men do at that age, already moving onto the next thing.
I told him he looked good out there. My father nodded — his version of the same thing.
But later that day, something stayed with me. Maybe it was the realization that places like that don’t just hold memories — they hold layers. Versions of people stacked on top of each other, even if you can’t see them all at once.
My father once ran there. I ran there after him. Yesterday, my son did the same. Three different runners, three different lanes, three different times. The same stretch of earth, carrying each of us for a little while.
Standing there beside my father, watching my son, I had this sense — not for long, but long enough — that time hadn’t moved in a straight line the way I always thought it did. It felt more like a curve. Like it had circled back just enough to let me see it. Who he was. Who we are. And to understand, maybe for the first time, that I’m no longer the one running. I’m the one watching. Right in the middle of it all.
