We’re here, hundreds of us milling about, on this concrete circle. It’s a circle big enough on which to turn a vehicle around, but not much bigger. There is a band that seems intent on warming-up over the music already playing on the speakers. People are in line for port-a-potties; people sharing nervous laughter; people running about in an attempt to get warm. I skip, dance, hop across the center, dodging people as I go. I was one of the few to show up in only shorts and a t-shirt. There are others, but we're the minority. My wife opted for her puffy in an attempt to stay warm. I went with the ‘be bold, start cold’ motto. I was indeed cold; didn't feel bold. I stretched out in the hotel room, an awkward writhing between the bed and the wall, wondering what all must be in the carpet as my head rested against it’s surface. All this stretching, all this running, all this mental hoopla just to be here, for this moment.
The Whidbey Island Marathon and half had already started. We were waiting for the joint 5 and 10k race starts. Race. I’ve been running for about a decade, but stopped. I had pain in my ankles which prompted a visit to my podiatrist in my early 30s. Arthritis. "Worst I've seen in someone your age." He told me to never run again while also threatening Crossfit attendance and other such delights. I listened. I didn't feel like I had much choice as the pain was relentless with any movement past 10-ish miles. I grieved these losses and fought against them. I remember two hikes in particular - one out of Staircase and the other a through-hike of the Enchantments - where I had tears forming in my eyes as it felt as if someone was shoving a knife beneath my lateral malleolus on my right ankle with every step.
Vanquished. No more running.
I had completed a number of marathons and halfsies and dabbled in the ultra distances, even completing Leadville with 20 minutes to spare before the cut-off. These felt less like races and more like personal vendettas - a score to settle with myself. Sunday felt like a race. I had been training since January when my morning walks turned into a shuffle and then a dash home. The ankle held up. I tried a 3-miler. Hips ached, but my head-space cracked. I can run.
I put in a few more runs instead of walks and enjoyed the effort. I found myself craving the more. This felt more worthy of my time, my age, my desires than did walking. I felt like I was gaining ground on my losses and I was exuberant. I felt pulled to run.
This is how I got here clad in my black shorty-shorts and my rnnr luck shirt. The wind was blowing off the water and the crowd was antsy. I felt alive. People here running to win it all; other have signed up for this run as motivation to get off the couch and this will be the longest distance they will have run; still others have other reasons, yet all of us doing something better for ourselves. I’ve always loved this about running. Whether it’s the distance or the time, this is what we came for.
I struggle with the 5K distance. It feels frivolous, more fun-run than something meriting a training plan. When I told my friend I was training for a 5k, he exclaimed, “You don’t need to train for a 5k” I knew what he meant and I had the same sentiment. It doesn’t have the same weight as a marathon. It’s less than.
Yet, here I was. I chose this run as the date fell close to my 44th birthday and I wanted to show some proof of life, maybe even some signs of speed. And so I ranto be here for this moment.
The announcer spoke to the details of the run and gave some advice. We pulled in close to banner reading, "Start". He chats and I'm taking in the crowd. Black spandex. Colorful shoes. Arms pasty from our Washington's winter. A clump of humanity moving, stretching, bouncing about. He adds, “All the fast people need to come to the front.” Was I fast? Am I fast enough to be at the front? I didn’t know, but I kissed the wife and went to join the other cocky mothers among the group. It was pretty sparse up front; I stood to the side, not knowing if I deserved this space. What if there was someone faster that needed to be here, right here?
There was a gentleman confidently in the front and center. His hips were at my nipples. I chuckled. Every stride of his would easily be three of mine. Behind and to my right was a gentleman with a stroller. I didn’t see what he had inside, but I told myself it was likely a battery to propel him and his e-stroller forward to victory. Pony-tails. Bed heads. Scruffy beards. Singlets. The shortest shorts and the longest sleeves. These were my people and I am happy to be here.
The countdown started. Ten seconds is not a long time to re-evaluate my readiness. Am I ready for this? Will I be able to breathe? What about the hill? The pinch point? Do I even know how to run? Do I belong here? My mind is a tricky place. My entire existence seems to be spent battling thoughts that threaten any shred of confidence. The beauty of running is that at some point my brain can’t multi-task all these thoughts and actually do the run thing. My leggies began to move, my eyes darting about the surging bodies. My panicked thoughts reached their zenith before they disintegrated. I am running.
Tall Boy was out first. By the time we did two lefts and a right onto the road, him and Stroller Man had eked passed me and were flying. Our group thinned quickly. I settled in behind this woman and tried to get my breathing under control. Her shorts weren’t particularly short and she had some slouchy socks going on. Her pony bounced in a rhythm that matched her pace. She didn’t appear to be running fast; her gait was steady and looked smooth, gazelle-ish. Keeping pace with her, I felt like I was running all out. Next to her, my gait felt like that of a charging elephant seal on land.
The worried-about pinch point was nothing. It was a left onto Scenic Heights and the beginning of the hill. Tall Boy and Stroller Man were gone. I knew I had to keep my pace up for the duration of this hill if I wanted a chance to break my 21 minute goal. I raced against myself, but racing is a funny thing. All of a sudden position seems to matter. The lady I was trailing slowed slightly with the uphill. I had to push. I edged past her. I wanted to utter some words of high-five, but breathing felt like the singular activity I was capable of in that moment.
One mile down.
Mile two finished the hill and then tipped downhill towards the turnaround. My running friend’s footsteps got louder, pushing me forward. The leggies wanted a break, but all they got was a little assistance from gravity and the motivation of this woman in pursuit. At the 5k turnaround, I tried to maneuver into a place where I wouldn’t be cutting my friend off at the cone. I put myself a couple of extra strides in front and as I turned, she says, “Good luck” and continues on with her 10k effort.
This is why I love running. The person I was battling with through mile one was running twice my distance and keeping pace with my 5k effort. I wanted to high-five this kick-ass human. She was in second place and the first woman in her run. I let out an audible chuckle; disbelief. The climbing began again.
This side of the climb was much more brief. I had regained some energy from the short downhill and used it to push myself up and over. Cresting that knoll felt like a victory, with gravity now pulling me forward, down. And then magical, unexpected moments - groups of runners in both races spread out over the next mile, coming towards me. Clapping, cheering, fist pumps, kind words, encouragement - Gah! - humans blow me away. I saw my beautiful wife as she started her climb. Her smile, her eyeballs make me feel light, unstoppable.
A right and down for a second pass through the pinch point. Groups of folks still on their out were all over the trail. It was only about four feet wide and slick with mud. It wasn’t their fault.
I hung a right and all was quiet. I was alone. I checked my watch - 17:30. Just keep running. Only the flat remained. Spectators dotted Windjammer Park, pockets of cheer as I ran along the water. I raced myself. Legs fatiguing. Breath coming in gasps. Body heat suffocating despite the persistent wind. All that was left to do was run. One last left and I was done. This felt anticlimactic.The concrete circle was empty except for the volunteers; the band played. I jogged back to the truck to grab my phone for the wifey's finish. This is where I saw Tall Boy for the last time. He was running sprints on the sidewalk, lids squinted, lips pursed, long legs gazelling about. May I recommend the 10k, Sir?
Stroller Man was at his car. I congratulated him on what I assumed was his second place finish. His cargo (not a battery) appeared to be his fourish-year-old daughter. This man crushed me while pushing a child. Gah! What delight running is!
I set up on the edge of the playground about 200 feet before the finish line to watch and cheer. This felt like joy. People sprinting, strolling, pushing. A mom and daughter were running together and the mom points to the finish line and says, “Do you see that? Meet me there.” And this young lady turns on her jets and streaks to the finish line with effortless ease and speed. What a beautiful thing. A mother/daughter 5k and a mom who knows when to send her kid forward, faster. I watched the first 10k runner come in under 40 minutes; he was about 50 feet in front of me on the out and up. He apparently did not relent from the additional miles or hills. Is this inspiration I feel?
The wife came through and she was smiling that smile and running her legs. When she finished, she appeared elated, animated. Perhaps running does this to all of us (except Tall Boy who was still laser-focused on some sidewalk somewhere).
Off to shower. We drove by my runner-friend in the parking lot. I rolled down my window and verbally high-fived her. I’m certain she didn’t recognize me, but I told my wife if she saw my legs, she’d know.
The results came out via an email. I discovered I had run a 21:12 5k. I missed my sub-21 minute goal, but still felt content. Tall Boy finished in first at 17:40. So dang fast. Stroller Man didn’t show up in the placement. I’m uncertain as to his absence., but I know was third. Fourth place was taken by a wee-child of 12 years-old. Running is unreal.
I have not run to race prior to this Sunday. Here I ran my heart out. Forty-four or 12, isn't what matters. It always comes back to doing something with what we still have. I ran faster than I've run before and yet my pace was slower than the gentleman who ran the marathon. I love this sport and I find humans to be amazing.
I am so grateful to have this body. I am grateful for my ankles that ran pain-free. I am thankful for fast humans, even the really tall ones. Next year, Boy Wonder.
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