Excerpt from New Book
07/10/10 11:50
In my brief season as a runner, a running partner who had completed marathons prior to our association suggested we enter and run in some five- and ten-kilometer races (5k: approximately three miles; 10k: approximately six miles). Cindy convinced me I could do it, so we began to train. With incredible patience she high-stepped along beside me, chatting while I gasped. She encouraged me every step of the way when we headed out in the early morning hours before my kids awoke. Cindy rode her bike across town to my house at six, and then rode home again because she knew that she wouldn't get enough of a workout by running with me. I managed to stagger one kilometer the first day and thought I would die. I didn't, unfortunately, which meant I had to run with Cindy again in two days.
Over a period of weeks, I slowly gained strength and endurance until we were running 5k three times a week. A few months into our training program, Gerry decided to join us. He hadn't done any running for 15 years. His first time out, he ran 10 kilometers. (Doesn't that just fry the hair right off your head? I wanted to slug him, but I couldn't catch him!) Cindy and I ran a couple of 5k races that summer, and the next year she decided we were ready for a 10k. I wasn't so sure. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't seem to break the 5k barrier, even though we were running regularly. In fact, the first time I ran a full 10k was the day of the race!
A family emergency called Cindy out of town at the last moment, and I almost dropped out. But the weekend of the race, some relatives came to visit. On a whim, my sister-in-law, who claimed she never ran anywhere, decided to run along beside me. Her 15-year-old son joined in too. He didn't even have any running shoes or shorts in his suitcase, so he decided to go in blue jeans and leather loafers. The 10k race we entered was designed so that the first kilometer was level, followed by a four kilometer climb ( 1000 feet elevation gain), at which point we made a U-turn and ran back down for four kilometers and finished the final kilometer on level ground.
The gun sounded and off we went. We three stuck together, laughing and chatting on the level ground. Then we started to climb what's known in our valley town as "the Big Hill." My nephew began to pull further and further ahead as he loped along easily in his street shoes, jeans, and hoody. His mom and I chugged our way up that hill with aching lungs and screaming thighs. We still had a kilometer to go to the crest when her son sailed past us, already on his way down. He had barely broken a sweat. On we went.
There weren't many people behind us as we climbed the Big Hill, and the last of them passed us as we made our way back down. After a while we noticed a persistent puttering sound behind us. Looking back we saw the race marshal inching along on his scooter, bringing up the rear (us!). We were dead last. He kept far enough back to preserve our dignity but close enough to be available if we collapsed.
On we ran. I use the word "ran" rather loosely, you understand. Plod would be more accurate. Sixty-three minutes after the starting gun sounded, my running mate and I "sprinted" (quit laughing!) over the finish line. In case your math is worse than mine that's a pace of 10 minutes per mile. It's a good thing I trained for two years! My nephew finished in 45 minutes and had time to wipe his moist brow and relax with a cold drink while he waited for us to finish.
I was incredibly proud of my accomplishment that day. I displayed my race number with the photo of my red-faced, finish-line grimace attached to it on the fridge for months. Why? Because my goal had been to finish the 10k race, not to win it. I didn't know whether or not I could make it twice as far as I had ever run before, and that day I proved I could. That run modeled for me one of the ways competitions can be good. As long as I was competing against myself instead of against the other racers, I was a winner. If I had failed to persevere and stopped running when I realized that, by comparison, I was slower than every other runner in that race, I would never have reached my goal. The next year I ran again, finishing dead last again but realizing my new goal of running a 10k in under 60 minutes. I made it with 13 seconds to spare! Go team! I don't run anymore. It's wise to quit when you're at the top of your game.
A family emergency called Cindy out of town at the last moment, and I almost dropped out. But the weekend of the race, some relatives came to visit. On a whim, my sister-in-law, who claimed she never ran anywhere, decided to run along beside me. Her 15-year-old son joined in too. He didn't even have any running shoes or shorts in his suitcase, so he decided to go in blue jeans and leather loafers. The 10k race we entered was designed so that the first kilometer was level, followed by a four kilometer climb ( 1000 feet elevation gain), at which point we made a U-turn and ran back down for four kilometers and finished the final kilometer on level ground.
The gun sounded and off we went. We three stuck together, laughing and chatting on the level ground. Then we started to climb what's known in our valley town as "the Big Hill." My nephew began to pull further and further ahead as he loped along easily in his street shoes, jeans, and hoody. His mom and I chugged our way up that hill with aching lungs and screaming thighs. We still had a kilometer to go to the crest when her son sailed past us, already on his way down. He had barely broken a sweat. On we went.
There weren't many people behind us as we climbed the Big Hill, and the last of them passed us as we made our way back down. After a while we noticed a persistent puttering sound behind us. Looking back we saw the race marshal inching along on his scooter, bringing up the rear (us!). We were dead last. He kept far enough back to preserve our dignity but close enough to be available if we collapsed.
On we ran. I use the word "ran" rather loosely, you understand. Plod would be more accurate. Sixty-three minutes after the starting gun sounded, my running mate and I "sprinted" (quit laughing!) over the finish line. In case your math is worse than mine that's a pace of 10 minutes per mile. It's a good thing I trained for two years! My nephew finished in 45 minutes and had time to wipe his moist brow and relax with a cold drink while he waited for us to finish.
I was incredibly proud of my accomplishment that day. I displayed my race number with the photo of my red-faced, finish-line grimace attached to it on the fridge for months. Why? Because my goal had been to finish the 10k race, not to win it. I didn't know whether or not I could make it twice as far as I had ever run before, and that day I proved I could. That run modeled for me one of the ways competitions can be good. As long as I was competing against myself instead of against the other racers, I was a winner. If I had failed to persevere and stopped running when I realized that, by comparison, I was slower than every other runner in that race, I would never have reached my goal. The next year I ran again, finishing dead last again but realizing my new goal of running a 10k in under 60 minutes. I made it with 13 seconds to spare! Go team! I don't run anymore. It's wise to quit when you're at the top of your game.