The Race

I was nervous. There were so many conflicting thoughts and concerns in my head.

1) I've never been to this race before, don't know how it all works. Will I be there early enough? (turns out I was like the 2nd to register and had a whole hour to pretend to warm up) Will I know where to go?

2) I haven't raced in 15 years and I don't remember how to warm up. Peering out of the corner of my eye at what other people are doing and copying them.

3) Wanting to be as anonymous as possible because I have NO idea how this will go, and running into my junior high track coach who still remembers the 12 year old who could run 800 meters faster than any other 12 year old girl in the state. (He beat my, by the way, in the 3ooo last night)

4) Reminding myself that I'm just in this for fun - "It's a new stage in life, you're doing this different this time, it doesn't have to be so competitive" - and yet feeling those old pre-race jitters in my head, heart and stomach. Seriously, if I don't care how this goes, then why am I nervous about all the young people sprinting all over this field?!

5) Praying a simple prayer, "God, let this be fun and help me do it different."

All this was before the race even started. As the bull horn went off and the pack took off, I settled back in the back into my 8 minute mile pace, quickly realizing that most everyone else was after a faster pace than that. No problem, I think, I'll just do my pace and some of them will drop off as we go.

Fast forward half the race. I'm feeling it in my legs - they are rebuking me sternly for the 5 mile run on Tuesday, the water skiing on Wednesday and now this. My lungs are keeping up - but working hard. No one is dropping off and I'm falling farther and farther behind the 20-something in green who I had hoped to stay close to.

That's when it happened. God gave me my gift. I had just passed a trio of runners who were distinctly unique. There was a young man and woman encouraging a girl in between them to keep going. She was hurting and struggling. The conversation went something like this:

"It HURRRRTS."

"I know, you can do it."

"This is HARRRD."

"You're doing fine."

"It's HHHHHOT"

" Let's pass 7 people, can you do it?"

"I'll try."

They picked up their pace enough to pass me. I decided to engage in their world and offer some words of encouragement. Just after they got past me she triumphantly stated, "ONE!" But it was as far as she got - settling into a burdened rhythm just in front of me. She, voicing her pain and trial, they, seeking to be positive and help her on to the finish.

We were just starting up the Derby Hill for the last push of the race. I don't remember what I said, but I engaged with her up the hill. In fact, I started to pass her and something inside her rose up as if to say, "I'm not going to get passed by the only person I was able to pass!" So I slowed my uphill pace a bit and matched her stride for stride to the top of the hill.

I pulled ahead as I saw the end in sight and heard her pre-puking behind me. Her sister, as I later found out was her companion, passed me with a 1/4 mile to go, thanking me for the encouragement, and finished the race 30 yards ahead of me. When I crossed the finish line, I was given a popsicle stick with the number 72, and ushered to a table where I was asked how old I was and what my name was. It was encouraging to see that less than a dozen of the racers were women in my "over 30" age bracket. Made me feel better about being in the back half of the back of the pack. :)

So what was the "gift" in this experience? Oh my goodness, it was such a flashback to my past! Coaches yelling from the sidelines, "You know who you need to beat." "Pass five people in this straight stretch." "Pick it up now." And then the poor puking girl. I have no doubt that her friends wanted to help her, but why in the world was she out there dying? And as I ran I was so glad it wasn't me. I was slow, but I wasn't in pain. I wasn't struggling for each step. I have run races where I felt like her, but this was not one of them. We were at the same race-pace, but not at the same life-place.

I remember well the days of goals and pace setting and trying to pass 7 people, and I don't want that anymore. I run because I can. Because after 15 years of working, having babies, eating too many donuts and struggling with any kind of exercise, my legs still work, my lung capacity is increasing, and I CAN. That's it. Period. I can. Someone asked me at the end of the race how it went, and my honest, heart-felt answer was, "I ran, and I finished, it was great."

Let's be clear, I'd like to run faster next Thursday than I ran this Thursday. I was mildly disappointed that my newly rediscovered strength put in such a poor showing compared to the young cross-country training kids out there. However, increasingly it's less about comparing myself to other people and more about seeing myself improve.