In which my kids kill me. I’m dead now.

Today was the kids last day at summer camp, which means it was destined for disaster.

It’s just under two miles to summer camp, so the kids and I ride our bikes, and then I hop on the train. Camp starts at 9, and the train leaves at 9:14, so it’s perfect. However, the next train doesn’t leave for another 30 minutes, so I really don’t want to miss that train.

So we left at a little after 8 and had a nice, leisurely ride to camp. As we were walking into the building, I said to Ollie, “Ollie, where is your backpack?” “Oh, I guess I left it in the car,” he said. “But we didn’t take the car…” I trailed off and Ollie looked at me blankly. A 45 minute bike ride with no backpack. No lunch.

It was about 8:50 and I knew there was no way I could ride my bike back and forth and still catch the 9:14 train, but I figured I might as well just start riding and not bother looking at the train schedule until I was back with the bag; no sense in making a plan without knowing how long it would take.

When you don’t have the kids, you can move a lot faster on a bike (I would argue that a bike is quicker than a car through the neighborhood), and I was peddling as hard as I could. Even with the stops and everything, I got back home in 10 minutes. Could I actually make it back in time for the train? I’d have to hurry. I hoped on my bike and went back the other way. I’d need to gain a few minutes if I was going to have a chance, so I tried to push harder, even though my legs were already pretty tired.

By the time I made it back and locked my bike up, my legs were a bit wobbly. Unfortunately, the return trip took me 10 minutes as well. I ran the bag in and dropped it off and hurried back out. 9:12. It seemed crazy, but the last thing I wanted to do was get up on the platform as the train was pulling away, and then have to sit there for 30 minutes. I was so close.

I ran.

As I was mounting the stairs to the station, I could hear the train pulling in on the platform. “Run!” I said to my legs. “Run!” They literally could not, and I’m not joking that my rubbery legs almost gave out on the stairs. Then I was up on the platform and the last passenger was getting on the train. This time my legs managed it, and I ran for all I was worth. I was so. close.

The conductors saw me huffing and puffing along and held the train for me (bless their hearts), which means I made it. The train was crowded, so I had to sit right next to someone, sweating like a monster and trying to catch my breath. My heart felt like it was going to burst, and my fingers were trembling so badly I almost couldn’t type to Sara, but I explained the whole disaster via text.

Me: “…sweat is just dripping down me. Home and back, lock up the bike, deliver the bag, then run to the train in 24 minutes. Put it on my tombstone. I’m dead.”
Sara: “That’s what you get for long shirt and pants.”

Let it be known that Sara’s last words to her husband were, “I told you so.”

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One thought on “In which my kids kill me. I’m dead now.

  1. Pingback: The car-free lifestyle | Is this thing on?

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