It’s
been a while since I’ve posted anything new, but just yesterday my niece asked
if I was going to blog. Her question
wasn’t completely out of the blue. After
all, we were both holding trophies in our hands.
We
had just finished running a 5K race along with my 58-year-old brother, another
niece’s boyfriend and a few hundred other joggers. It was a lot hotter and more humid than the
weatherman had predicted, and even before I had run a step, I was beginning to
sweat. Not a good sign, I remember thinking. I am going to wilt in this heat.
Looking
around, I couldn’t help but notice the horde of teenagers, all members of a
middle school cross country team. Most
of the adult racers looked taut and fit and young, not a wobbly thigh in the crowd.
Although several of the men looked to be about my age or older, I only noticed
two women with gray hair or weathered skin. What
am I doing here?
Suddenly,
a shot sounded, and the crowd began to move. The two 20-somethings in our group
took off running. My brother hung back
with me for a few steps, and then he, too, was gone.
I
wasn’t exactly alone, surrounded as I was by so many other runners. Still I
felt like I was the only one huffing and puffing, and I worried that they could
all hear the sound of my heart pounding. The first mile mark was a good 10 miles away, and when I finally,
finally reached it, I thought, Oy, 2.1
more to go.
It
was then I saw a man running a few steps ahead of me. He wasn’t exactly flying
along either, and I pushed myself to catch up.
We ran alongside each other a while and started to talk. Funny, how much
easier running felt as we talked. I told
him ours was a family run, and my brother had printed up t-shirts emblazoned
with the slogan: 5 Kafer Run. “Oh,” he
said, “is that your mother behind us?”
I
felt a sudden boost of energy, a flood of joy.
Do the math. He couldn’t possibly think I was 60. And so we ran the rest of the race together.
(Abandon such a brilliant and perceptive man? Never!)
So
often the races we talk about are metaphorical that it’s pretty exhilarating to
run with a real finish line and to go home with a real trophy. My niece came in 2nd for women
20-29, and I placed 3rd among women 60 and over. I know for a fact
that there were more than three women in my division because as I walked off
with my trophy, a gray haired woman demanded to see my ID. “How old are you?” she screamed. As sweet as
the victory was, the accusation of foul play was even sweeter.
When
you start a blog called “60 days to 60,” and then you turn 60, it feels like an
end of sorts. Or maybe that’s just how
turning 60 feels. But yesterday, I won a
trophy in a 5K race. And if I was still 59, I would have gone home
empty-handed.
