Another Memorable Run
Benevolence and mutual support define the running subculture. Fans along a marathon course, for example, cheer as hard for the plodders in the back as they do the gazelles in front. It's all good. Just getting out there, whether walking or running, commands respect. Just do it!
For me, every run is a page, every race a chapter and every marathon, of which I've run 18, is a book, with no two pages, chapters or books alike.
It's interesting how the sports folks on ESPN radio or television, as well as the athletes whose careers they chronicle, seem to have such detailed memories of events long ago, like a pop fly in the sixth inning or a simple 4-yard gain on a running play.
But the same can be said for runners and their races. I remember details of races large and small from more than a decade ago, sometimes silly things such as making the mistake of using a cold, dry, flaky biscuit as fuel during a marathon. It wound up more like eating feathers, and gagging and coughing resulted in airborne biscuit flakes that brought laughter from the crowd and fellow runners.
Recently, weight loss and training have allowed me to bring down my running times, to the point where medal competition was possible for the first time in years.
It has been more than a decade since I raced a 10K, but my training times, compared to last year's race times, showed I might scratch out a third place in my age group if I did my best.
Targeted on the calendar was this past week's Azalea 10K in Tyler, and training for it started two months ago, highlighted by the boys riding their bikes alongside me on Saturday training runs as we rumbled up and down the Rose Rudman Trail here.
We arrived this past Saturday morning to find more than 1,000 participants milling around near the starting area, which made it difficult to find the friend who was coming out to watch the kids for a few minutes and allow them to see me finish.
But the kid watcher was nowhere to be found. The gun sounded, and off went the runners. My heart sank, because there went any chance to get a medal, because seconds might have been crucial.
More than 90 seconds after the race had started, we connected with the sitter, but I figured it was too late. That 90 seconds is an eternity in a 10K.
I herded the kids over to the registration table, hoping to cash in my entry so that the three of us could run that day's 2-mile race.
A woman at the registration table looked at me and said, "Honey, this is a chip-timed race. You have a chip in your race number. Your time doesn't start until you cross the starting line. Go!"
With the announcer calling, "Last call for 10K runners," I handed the kids over to the sitter, darted through the crowd and took off down the street, with the back of the walkers about a half mile down the road.
More darting ensued, and within three miles I was amid the bulk of the 10K racers, passing and surging ahead, rolling up and down hills and panicking that I'd been left behind, although I knew better.
Finally came the hilly home stretch, and about 40 yards from the finish, my older son, Curt, 10, joined the race and got a laugh when he hollered, "HEY DAD!!! HOLD UP!!," just feet from the finish line. His little brother, Luke, 8, was right behind him.
There was no way to know whether I'd medaled, so we left, had an awesome breakfast at Brookshire's FRESH and spent most of the rest of the day hanging out, with futile periodic checks of the race site.
Race results in the next morning's newspaper indicated that I did not scratch the Top 3 in my age group, therefore no medal. I was still pleased with my time, which the chip would have read as 46:10, exactly what I'd trained for.
But then came the Monday morning surprise. Apparently the previously reported results were inaccurate, and I managed to place third in my age group and score the first medal in a very long time.
So this race will be remembered for the premature heartbreak, the panic of thinking there was a need to catch up, running like a water bug early in the race and managing to scratch out a medal.
But most importantly, I'll remember it for two little guys so caught up in Dad's finish that they broke away from the sitter and joined him in crossing the finish line.
That is a good, heartwarming sign of things to come. It won't belong before they trade in their bikes for running shoes and join me on the trails.
For me, every run is a page, every race a chapter and every marathon, of which I've run 18, is a book, with no two pages, chapters or books alike.
It's interesting how the sports folks on ESPN radio or television, as well as the athletes whose careers they chronicle, seem to have such detailed memories of events long ago, like a pop fly in the sixth inning or a simple 4-yard gain on a running play.
But the same can be said for runners and their races. I remember details of races large and small from more than a decade ago, sometimes silly things such as making the mistake of using a cold, dry, flaky biscuit as fuel during a marathon. It wound up more like eating feathers, and gagging and coughing resulted in airborne biscuit flakes that brought laughter from the crowd and fellow runners.
Recently, weight loss and training have allowed me to bring down my running times, to the point where medal competition was possible for the first time in years.
It has been more than a decade since I raced a 10K, but my training times, compared to last year's race times, showed I might scratch out a third place in my age group if I did my best.
Targeted on the calendar was this past week's Azalea 10K in Tyler, and training for it started two months ago, highlighted by the boys riding their bikes alongside me on Saturday training runs as we rumbled up and down the Rose Rudman Trail here.
We arrived this past Saturday morning to find more than 1,000 participants milling around near the starting area, which made it difficult to find the friend who was coming out to watch the kids for a few minutes and allow them to see me finish.
But the kid watcher was nowhere to be found. The gun sounded, and off went the runners. My heart sank, because there went any chance to get a medal, because seconds might have been crucial.
More than 90 seconds after the race had started, we connected with the sitter, but I figured it was too late. That 90 seconds is an eternity in a 10K.
I herded the kids over to the registration table, hoping to cash in my entry so that the three of us could run that day's 2-mile race.
A woman at the registration table looked at me and said, "Honey, this is a chip-timed race. You have a chip in your race number. Your time doesn't start until you cross the starting line. Go!"
With the announcer calling, "Last call for 10K runners," I handed the kids over to the sitter, darted through the crowd and took off down the street, with the back of the walkers about a half mile down the road.
More darting ensued, and within three miles I was amid the bulk of the 10K racers, passing and surging ahead, rolling up and down hills and panicking that I'd been left behind, although I knew better.
Finally came the hilly home stretch, and about 40 yards from the finish, my older son, Curt, 10, joined the race and got a laugh when he hollered, "HEY DAD!!! HOLD UP!!," just feet from the finish line. His little brother, Luke, 8, was right behind him.
There was no way to know whether I'd medaled, so we left, had an awesome breakfast at Brookshire's FRESH and spent most of the rest of the day hanging out, with futile periodic checks of the race site.
Race results in the next morning's newspaper indicated that I did not scratch the Top 3 in my age group, therefore no medal. I was still pleased with my time, which the chip would have read as 46:10, exactly what I'd trained for.
But then came the Monday morning surprise. Apparently the previously reported results were inaccurate, and I managed to place third in my age group and score the first medal in a very long time.
So this race will be remembered for the premature heartbreak, the panic of thinking there was a need to catch up, running like a water bug early in the race and managing to scratch out a medal.
But most importantly, I'll remember it for two little guys so caught up in Dad's finish that they broke away from the sitter and joined him in crossing the finish line.
That is a good, heartwarming sign of things to come. It won't belong before they trade in their bikes for running shoes and join me on the trails.
posted by Brian at 10:55 AM
1 Comments:
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