11/30/2019 0 Comments The Turkey TrotThe glory of Thanksgiving morning found me running a 5K instead of running around my kitchen preparing for a feast this year. The day before had been a rush of activity to get ready for the annual Thanksgiving meal at the community center. That event had gone off without any real problems and had left me and the other volunteers feeling pretty good about the holiday and with a certain buoyancy about our personal Thanksgivings. That buoyancy didn’t propel me to far when I started running, unfortunately
Why someone with my physical prowess and physique would voluntarily choose to run in cold, damp conditions on a Thanksgiving morn is the question of the ages, but I digress. I made the choice, I paid the entrance fee, and I showed up for the Turkey Trot. My youngest son has been running since he was young, He ran his first Triathlon when he was 8 and his first marathon at 15. As a result, he has the dubious honor of being my running buddy when I decide to sign up for one of these events. The Turkey Trot was no different. We rolled out of bed before the rest of the family and donned our cold weather running gear, ready to face the brisk November morn with style. We were so ready in fact that we arrived an hour before start time. A quick trip to OnCue for a clean restroom and extra hydration, and we were back at the start ready to go and only 30 minutes early. The pre-run crowd was amiable and cheerful and very laid back. A very different vibe from the crowds before marathons that have an abundance of the first two characteristics, but immense intensity (not a lot of laid back marathoners out there). The intensity in this crowd was not quite as vehement, the man prancing around in the giant turkey outfit set the stage for this auspicious event, I relaxed in my running shoes. These people were toasting each other with venti frappuccinos and chatting about the extra pie they would be able to eat after their run. These were my people! Don’t get me wrong, I love the marathoners I have met, but they are a fiercely, avid bunch. I believe it takes dedication and discipline to run 26.6 miles without dying, puking, or both; and yet these people willingly go through the pain of running that distance as a form of entertainment and recreation; they possess concentrated, crazy energy for an event that most don’t even try to understand. I’m proud to say that my son is one of that elite breed of crazy that runs as a passion. Meet a marathoner some day, and you will find they are a different and dedicated breed. Back to the paltry 5K I was going to attempt. I realize that this is the standard distance that the cross country teams run on an almost daily basis, but for me, it was a big deal. My daily runs have recently consisted of distances around 2.5 miles. My main goal each morning is to run a little faster than the day before and get my average speed per mile down to a more respectable number. But it seems that breaking that 14 minute mile mark, is just a little more difficult than I thought. Somewhere at some time for some reason over the past three weeks, I decided that a 5K was the answer. If I can’t go faster, I’ll go longer. Perfect logic. Corral A was reserved for those that could finish in under 25 minutes, not my group. Corral B was for those who could finish with a respectable time of 35 minutes or less, nope, not my group. Corral C was for the more leisurely pace of under 45 minutes. Corral D was for runners with dogs or strollers and walkers, not me either. By process of elimination, I was left as a C participant. However, I have been to a few of these runs and know that starting with that group is a little annoying. The initial surge at the start can be hard because the person in front of me usually sets a pace slightly less than mine or the crowd is so thick that I can’t start running until we are 30 steps away from the gate. I decided to angle for the end of group B to be ahead of group C. With electronic sensors on our bibs, our times are electronically recorded so that wouldn’t be affected by the group I was in. All of my decision making about where to start wasn’t really necessary, the first group went and then the rest of us pushed past the start, we were on our way. At least, I was out in front of the tangle of dog leashes and the slow-moving strollers. The bulk of the race was held on a wide, tree-lined boulevard that the creative city founders aptly named Boulevard. We were to run northbound for about one and a half miles and then cross the median and make the return trip on the southbound side of the street. The start and finish in front of the downtown event center made the rest of the race. Pretty simple plan, only one street and quarter streets blocked off and it was early enough that not too many people would be inconvenienced. I was plodding along at what I thought was my usual 13 minute mile pace when I noticed that I had hit the wrong button on my watch. The fitness face on my smart watch has a preset walking, running, cycling, or swimming button. I had hit the swimming one. My watch was stuck in water mode until further notice. I can barely run without tripping, adjusting my technology in the middle of the race isn’t happening. My earbuds were blaring praise and worship music from my spotify playlist, the beat setting the tempo of my feet, until the music stopped. My aforementioned aversion to working with technology while engaged in athletic events prevented me from investigating the issue, that and the fact that my cell phone was tucked inside my sweatshirt and getting my gloved hands inside my jacket and then my sweatshirt pocket without incidence seemed impossible. I was going to have to run without my tunes. Oh, the humanity. I hadn’t even gone a mile when I was faced with the ultimate technological revolt and all my electronic devices were behaving strangely. I was left to contemplate life for remainder of the race. I set my resolve and plodded along in what I hoped was a consistent gate. I was pondering answers to the big questions of life and talking to God about my place in this world when I noticed the first of the runners coming back on the other side of the street. I was flabbergasted. My swimmers timer wasn’t accurately tracking the mileage so I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like these young men heading back to the finish line were almost done while I was struggling in my first mile. Luckily, I remembered the staggered start and didn’t feel as bad. Besides the guys that were almost done were all healthy young men that looked like they ran regularly, I couldn’t have competed with these guys even in my youth. The trickle of contestants passing me on the other side grew larger and included both women and men, all of whom possessed the classic calves that speak of a runner. My oddly, spindly yet chubby legs couldn’t compare. God and I were involved in a rather one-sided dialogue when I noticed a ten year old breeze past me on the other side, it just got real. When the running club from the local home-school co-op passed me, I really pushed my pace. The reality that my form was cramping up less than two miles in, was embarrassingly apparent. But I pushed on, and I prayed. Unfortunately, that was when my foot started aching. My left foot bears the battle wounds of my brief time playing C league women’s indoor soccer. It takes more bravery than skill to play in that league. Anyone willing to sign a waiver can play and most are on the portly side. Combining a lack of athleticism, no practice time, and mis-placed aggression on a cement hard playing surface covered with astro turf results in occasional injury. Despite the limitations of our playing facility, our team had fun. Our second season together, we won the championship. Unfortunately, I was smashed into the wall by a 200 pound defender the next season and limped home with a broken foot that never healed properly. That foot still bothers me when I run. It bothered me a lot Thursday morning. I looked up and saw my son heading down the road towards me, he waved and shouted “Go mom!” It was just the boost I needed. I wanted to finish this run to prove to myself that I could do it. I have a long list of things that I haven’t completed. Things that I have always intended to do, but haven’t gotten around to doing. I could have easily stopped running and started walking and no one would have thought anything of it. Lots of people were alternating between running and walking, I’d just be another start and stop participant, but I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to finish what I had started. So with no tunes to keep my cadence up and an aching left foot, I made the mid way turn and headed toward the finish line. I noticed that one woman crossed the median before she reached the half-way point and started walking back towards the finish line so she could walk with her friends, she only shaved a few minutes off her time, but I was glad I hadn’t done it myself. The only one that would have known was me, but doing what needs to be done when no one is around is the journey towards integrity that I am trying to walk everyday. It would have been an easy compromise, cutting through the median, but it would have gotten me no closer to my fitness or life goals, no thank you. I hobbled on towards my next mirco-goal, and gradually started to pick up speed. I was hoping to feel that stitch in my side I used to experience in my running days from my 20s. The stitch would always proceed that amazing, euphoric feeling that some call a runner’s high. That feeling propelled me to run in my college days; it was less expensive than drinking and didn’t involve a hangover. Illogically, I choose drinking to running most of the time. This time the stitch in the side came, but no euphoric, I-can-run-forever feeling, just pain. I kept going. Suddenly, I looked up and noticed that the turn towards the finish line was two short blocks away. I started to sprint. I quickly stopped sprinting and rethought whether a kick at the end was really necessary. Next thing I know, I am passing people cheering me towards the finish line, I was actually going to do this. A smallish group of friends that had walked the one-miler were standing at the finish line clapping as I crossed. I did it. I had a humiliatingly slow time, but I did it. And I brought my average minute per mile time down by 20 seconds. Maybe constant monitoring of my fitness watch slows me down! In my mind, I glided across the finish line with a strong, sure stride. The pics from sports photographer that were emailed to me the next day told a different story. Let’s just say, I need to work on my form, I bet my knees would appreciate it. Regardless of my time or my form or the fact that it was just a 5K, I finished. God strengthened me, and I didn’t quit. A silly little Turkey Trot completion gave me the boost I needed to start learning a more challenging song on my guitar, write another chapter in my book, and believe for something I had dismissed. I needed to prove to myself that I could do something, and I did. For once I didn’t crumble, quit, or come up short; I did a little thing and it felt like a big thing. I needed that little thing. Sometimes it’s the little victories that mean the most, especially when you have been stuck in a season of big defeats. I’m exiting the time of interruptions and marching into little victories, and I’m keeping my eyes fixed on God because the battle for the next season is going to be hard. But I won’t crumble, quit, or come up short; I’ve got this because God’s got me.
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AuthorI am a Christian, a wife, a mom, and a part-time basket case who wants to be a full time writer.
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