I finished Max’s Race yesterday with a time of 36:56.  Did you catch that?  I FINISHED the race.  I’m so happy and sore I don’t know what to do with myself.

Max was a little boy in our community who died in 2005 and his parents started a foundation in his name.  He happened to go to the same daycare as our kids, but we didn’t know him or his family.  I’m happy that I chose this race to begin what I hope will be a long and fulfilling hobby.

For a couple of days before the race, I had been trying to get hydrated, eat well and avoid alcohol.  To celebrate my discipline, Tim took me to the Peanut Barrel for a pitcher of Blue Moon on Friday night.  While there, my friend Nikki called to plan our meeting spot the next morning.  When I couldn’t hear her over the noise of the bar, she had the nerve to question whether I was taking the race seriously enough.  Duh, I chose the beer that has orange slices in it.

The Race

I made it two miles before I had to walk a bit.  I wasn’t all that tired yet, but I was afraid if I didn’t conserve a little energy I might not be able to make it all the way.  I walked a minute or two and then started up again.  After another half mile or so, I had an overwhelming urge to start crying my eyes out.   Then, just as quickly, I began to laugh.

I hadn’t anticipated this.  My body wasn’t a wreck – my mind was.  “Listen, you lunatic, this isn’t a marathon – it’s THREE miles,” I scolded myself.  I tried to concentrate on my breathing.  With every breath in: keep it together.  Every breath out: keep it together.  I had one last corner to turn up ahead.  Once I made that turn, I’d be able to see the finish line and hundreds of people would be cheering for me, willing  me to succeed.

For a long while I’d been following a woman to seemed to be out on her version of a leisurely Sunday drive.  She had been cheerfully thanking each volunteer as we passed them – each holding a cardboard arrow pointing us in the right direction.  How could they have known that since mile three I’d been considering vearing off course to the Dairy Store just a short block away?  Had this happened before?  Had they had runners disappear off course, like Amelia Earhart, never to be seen again?  Their arrows seemed to suggest it.

Anyway, this woman.  She was cheerful.  And friendly.  And talkative.  And annoying.  At the last bend, we came upon a volunteer standing with an arrow in one hand, and a leash in the other.  Of course, This Woman had to comment on what a great dog he was, just sitting there patiently as we all ran by.  “Oh,” said the young volunteer.  “This was Max’s dog.”

Suddenly, I felt like I was running in my tall rubber wellies.  My feet were heavy and my chest was heaving with the weight of my body.  The slobbery, thick-in-the-middle, beautiful chocolate lab, was Max’s dog.  He had run with that dog.  He had cuddled that dog.  He had to say goodbye to that dog. My breathing became irratic, and as I rounded the final corner, I had to decide how I was going to finish this race.  With determination and grace, or as blubbering baby, crawling across the line.  I guess I probably was a little of both.  I worked hard to get my breathing back on track and I was even able to put on a little burst of speed at the end.  No one could tell the tears from the sweat.  It was only 3.2 miles for my body, but it was a full blown marathon in my mind.