Who am I racing?

I don't hear the starting bell or there just isn’t one for this race. I'm standing ready to go when all of a sudden the people in front of me start running. I barely have time to hit the start button on my phone's GPS/pedometer App to start the clock. The music is already playing in my ears. It's a rush of bodies all clamoring to find their spot in line. There is plenty of passing, the skirting of people, the going around the slower runners, the general sorting of speed. I try not to get in anyone's way but I also try not to get stuck behind someone with a slower pace. Bob and weave. My hands were shaking to start the race. I don't know why I get nervous. There isn’t much at stake, is there. My heart was already sprinting ahead of me and now it's pounding along with my feet. I find a stride for the first half-mile. It's muggy and I am already sweating unbecomingly. It only gets worse. We run over rocks, across small covered bridges, down some dirt paths. It's sandy and my feet stink in. It's gonna make me go slower so I push a little harder. It's too long until the first mile marker. But my GPS tells me I made good time. Better than normal. This is not a good sign. I will burn out. I slow down a little. I am already tired. Out of breath.The voices start.

 

Stop they say.

Rest they say.

You can’t do this.

Why do you try?  

It's a battle between head and body- but with each contributing to both sides. Determination and exhaustion. Doubt and strength. I don’t want to embarrass myself. I tried to think of other things. What I read on Facebook this morning. How pretty the scenery is. Not how much my thighs hurt. I try not to look at the runners around me but it's hard. They seem to be breathing easier than me. They seem to have good strides in their neon running shoes. I assume they have a strategy that I don't know about. I look at their faces but can’t decide if they show proud resolve or simple misery. I pass a few people who actually look like runners. I feel good about that. Others pass me. It’s hard to pull in a real breath. I’m afraid the others can hear me trying too hard. We run a trail through a field and I try not to step on the horse manure. The other races have been on roads. Manure is a new challenge. I smile for a second.

We get to a steep downhill section of rocks, roots and overgrown grass. I run down it with a thrill in my stomach trying not to trip. Like when you're a kid and your legs go faster than you think they can to save themselves. We hit 2 miles and my legs are jelly. Burning jelly, if there is such a thing. All I want to do is stop. This is awful. Horrible. Painful. Why do I do this? It's hard to remember. My throat has chosen this moment to close in upon itself, each side adhering together like the sticky inside of a plastic baggie. I try to swallow and it loosens just a bit. There, ahead, salvation. I grab a plastic cup of water from those generous hands that hold them out and I gulp it down. 30 seconds later I regret it. Cramp. I breathe through it.

We turn a corner onto a paved road. It goes up for eternity. All I see are runners spaced along it like beads on a string. Chugging their way up this horrible hill. I know the end is not far after but I’ve got nothing left in the tank. I slow to a walk for a few seconds. I try to convince my legs to go. The voices are winning. A girl with braids in her hair like my five-year-old wears passes me. I don't like this. I don’t like it at all. I look behind me down the hill. Lots of people back there, threatening to pass me. I speed up. Why do I care? I'm here for me. Right? I know this is my slowest mile yet. Spent too much in the first mile and I’m angry at myself.  Finally, agonizingly, I read the top of the hill. I make the turn. At the end of this dirt road is the finish. People are clapping. They look happy. The ones that already finished. And the ones waiting to see their runner turn the final corner. I see the clock. Damn. Definitely not my best. Failure? I push myself. I thought I was on empty. I sprint towards the end. I actually sprint. People clap. Some cheer. Not just for me but for the other ones around me. And the ones behind me. It feels good anyway. Many have crossed before me. Long before me.

I reach the finish line. And cross. The pain falls away as I slow down. I pull in long breaths. My fly-paper throat relaxes. The sweat drips off of me. I grab a bottle of water. It's the best damn thing I've ever tasted. I stop and look around. People are high-fiving, calling out their times, celebrating their best record. No one I know is there at this finish. I've done this one alone. God, that hurt. I wait for the reward. There is nothing I know of in life that I hate more right up until the second I love it. My breath back, the ache in my legs slowly receding, I smile. Slowly. Deliciously. Satisfaction finds me.

Later my daughter asks me if I won the race. Yes I did.