To say that we raced down R street would be to propagate a falsehood, to stretch credulity far past its cracking point, to offer, in place of the truth, the unequal exchange of a tall tale if you’re charitable and a lie if you’re honest. Let’s be honest. We moved, faster than a crawl, it’s true, but not by much. 

Still, Lucas’s enthusiasm only increased, bubbling chirps begetting bubbling squeaks as each stride brought us—him in the jogging stroller (decidedly not a “running stroller” these days), legs splaying wildly in defiance of what you’d think is humanly but apparently not toddlerly possible, me pushing, sweating, and generally laboring at making. it. go.—as each stride brought us closer to home.

I couldn’t secure visual confirmation of his delight from his face, but his steady shrieks—a first in this context, though we’ve been running together for close to a year now—accompanied by a steady (motivational?) banging of his little plastic bucket, Shark Bite special flavor blue hued, against the side of the stroller—also a first in this context, and probably a little embarrassing for us both—tickled to the utmost to be on this particular run on a low 70s and sunny, close-to-summer type of afternoon in DC.