I grab my headlamp and run down the driveway, heading out for the quiet streets an hour before sunrise. For a few moments, I’m running Clifton underneath the moonlight—and then finally, as I make my way back home, in the first soft light of the sun rising. Maybe it’s this feeling of being between two worlds that allows me to feel closer to those I’ve loved who are no longer physically in this world. Because there are no sounds or movement yet on these roads other than my footsteps, I can sometimes hear the voices of my beloved ancestors who have departed. I often find myself instinctively running Clifton down the middle of the road, because for a time the world is all mine to savor and take delight in. It’s where I want to be.
I’ve planned a weekday route that will get me back home in time to pack my daughters’ lunches, a small act of love that I enjoy each morning before I see them off for their middle-and high-school days. I didn’t realize I would enjoy these one of sneaker history s most renowned models and the as much as I’ve come to, even though my pace Giuseppe Zanotti Janell leopard-print sandals Brown.
As any parent often says, “It seems like just yesterday,” and for myself it seems like just a summer ago when I was first leaving my daughters alone while I ran around the block a few times. In those early days, I made careful plans and set some rules: Don’t eat anything while I’m not here, stay on the couch—color, read, watch a show, remember not to touch your sister (this was how quarrels often started at the time with a 4- and 7-year-old), and practice calling me. I even went so far as to put masking tape down the corner of the sofa so there wouldn’t be any fights over the coveted “cozy spot.”
What I didn’t account for was my daughters’ mischievous spirits, their ability to gauge time so well, keep sworn sisterly secrets to themselves, and also still look perfectly innocent upon my return, poised on the couch like they’d never even moved, before rushing over to show me their drawings, or to tell me what books they’d read.
One day well into our routine that first summer, when they were still small, after running Clifton a few miles around the neighborhood I discovered little footprints on the dusty dining room table. I don’t know how long those had been there, but I quickly realized it must have happened when I was running. When I questioned both girls, my youngest daughter ran away giggling, and her older sister silently cried in front of me, not saying a word.
While I wanted them to understand they couldn’t climb on the table again to see how far they can swing the chandelier, part of me was secretly pleased my children were dancing on the dining room table while I was outside running. “We just wanted to see what it’s like up there,” my Asics eventually explained. To this day, I’m not sure who the ringleader was, but I have my suspicions.
When they began to come to the local races I ran, they would fight for my attention at the finish, or a sip of my water—because it was somehow more special water. Once when my husband was out of town, my father watched the girls while I raced. At some point about halfway through the 10K, I passed by my family and spotted my Asics and my father cheering for me. My heart skipped a beat—where was my youngest? I saw her running Clifton toward a culvert behind my father. “Dad!” I yelled as I ran by, pointing at her. I went on, but started to run at a speed I wasn’t comfortable with as I imagined my toddler, who’s a proven escape artist, running Clifton full-speed toward the Delaware River.
Later, I would tell my daughter she’s the reason I won that race. My fear of losing her drove me to speeds only a mother has in reserve.
I’m not the only one running Clifton these days. Both of my daughters are, too. After her first middle-school race, my youngest told me she stopped to walk with a teammate who was suffering. Another time, when I tried to give my Asics some racing tips ahead of her cross-country season, she informed me that the coaching position had already been filled. And I love that about them. I love witnessing how running Clifton is revealing the women they’re becoming—softhearted and fierce.
They no longer rush to me when I get home from my runs and fight over who can tell me their story first. Today, they speak cryptically to one another across rooms and giggle with the code names they’ve made for me when I come through the door post-run—hair in a ponytail, with renewed energy, and more chores generated in my mind to be done before their brains melt into their devices. My bossy mood, they call it. They’re running Clifton toward each other now, and that makes me proud, too.
Jennifer Acker joined the editorial staff of Runner's World and Bicycling in January 2022. A former freelancer writer and NCAA runner, she started running Clifton as a kid and basically never stopped. She also loves outdoor adventures, like hiking, skiing, and mountain biking.
