What Crazy Looks Like

I'm what crazy looks like.  I admit it.  If crazy is repeating the same activity and expecting a different result, then I'm guilty.

For over ten years, I was a runner.  I ran distances from the one mile to a 50k ultramarathon.  I never won, you understand.  But I trained for every race as if my legs might suddenly find wings.  I had fantasies of losing ten pounds and suddenly being a LOT faster.  It never happened-- even when I lost the ten pounds.  Then I had John Robert.  Then Spencer.  Then Denver.  I began not to feel like a runner anymore.  Runners train for races.  I have mostly done yoga and taken walks for about a decade.

Yesterday, for the first time in years, I ran a race.  I'm not talking about pushing a double jogging stroller or trotting alongside one of my sons in the Fun Run.  I mean: I entered The Pancake Stampede 5k with the ridiculous hope of winning the women's division. 

That's me at the starting line in a hot pink shirt on the far left.

I trained.  I stretched.  I got nervous the night before.  I ate a Gu at the starting line.  When the race began, I was near the front.  (It was a small race.  It was 26 degrees.  We were all fools to be out there at all!).  I found the only woman ahead of me, and tried to stay on her lime green shoulder as we descended a hill and entered the icy, muddy, offroad portion of the race.  By the end of the first mile, I knew I was running a blistering pace that couldn't hold.  It didn't.  Lime green woman ran off and left me.  Other women began to pass me, including a seven year old girl running with her mom and giggling.  Forgive me, but I wanted to trip her and leap over the body.  How could she jog past me so easily?  Didn't she know I had trained?!

Coming up the big hill to the half way point, I was sure that despite the freakishly strong women passing me, I was at least setting a PR.  Wrong again.  90 seconds slower than I had hoped.  I dug in to see what I could do.  I decided to finish this race with nothing left to give.  I passed a good looking guy who was also very out of shape.  I passed a tall man who was shuffling along with his hands in his pockets.  I passed Lime Green woman on an incline.  "Hi, Kim!", she shouted as I went by.  Oh my, it was Mattie Moon, the wonderful teacher at the Montessori School and daughter of a friend.  I greeted her, felt slightly embarrassed that I'd been happy about passing her, and continued running.

The last half mile is all uphill.  I dug in.  "Nothing left.  Nothing left," I puffed to myself.  The marvelous race volunteers cheered, "Way to go, Ladies!" as I passed.  I heard the plural.  As silly as it seems-- the prize for winning the race was a bottle of syrup or a spatula, and I wasn't even winning-- I didn't want to be passed.

I found another gear.  I lifted my knees and increased turnover.  The air was so cold, my throat hurt from breathing.  I saw the finish line and sprinted toward it like the Holy Land.

There was polite applause, or maybe the volunteers were simply trying to keep warm.  I walked a few more steps and then bent over to rest and possibly vomit.  My tank was empty.  I'd done my best.  My time?  Blistering nine minute miles.  The slowest 5k I have ever run.  Sad, but true.  Nevertheless, I came in 19th.  And there were more than 19 runners!  That sounds so much better than nine minute miles!

The rest of the day is a blur of family duties, resting, and mulling over the little race: I was proud of my effort and appalled by my results.  Maybe for the next race, I can bring my german shepard; and people will be afraid to pass me; especially seven year old little girls!