So two weeks ago, I ran a little race. It's the only race I run for time and placement. I run to get in the top three for my age group 'cause I want the prize. The prize is to die for, in my opinion. Cash? No. Fame? No. Coffee cup? Indeed. Handmade, gorgeous, travel mug. You'd run fast, too, if you thought you could put your grubby hands on one. Isn't she a beauty?
It was a week full of rain. And a cold front. But did that stop me? No, it did not. I got to the race at 6:30 AM, froze my ass off, pretended to "warm" up like all the real runners were -- small, tenuous stretches, railing against a body that wanted to be cuddled up and warm in the hotel room. The moments before a race are laid with snares, pitfalls for someone like me. I will never measure up to the real runner.
The race gets underway and the conditions are less than friendly. It's cold, windy, cloudy, muddy. Much of the course is off road in slippery, gritty mud. I could feel my hips working extra hard to keep me from sliding. I shortened my strides and slowed my pace. I felt the bits of cold, hard mud fling on to my legs and back, saw splatters on my glasses. All was going fairly well into the last mile, when I tired out. Really tired out.
***Insert a completely random aside: The one song that seems to fit this race the most is this.
I'm not sure why, but I love to sing it loud and proud along my way. I think because I'm working something out -- something about the value of words versus the words of value. Exit completely random aside.***
The finish to this race is half a lap around a track. As we entered the arena, a woman came up alongside me. I looked quickly. But I could not tell her age. She wasn't young. She wasn't old. Was she my age? I watched her pull ahead of me and I let her go on. I was done. And then, I heard my very own self say to me, "If you don't try, if you let her cross the finish line ahead of you, and she's third place, you will hate yourself later. You have to try. Just try." So I kicked it into high gear, not sure I had much more left in me. Pulled past her. Crossed the finish line exactly one second ahead of her. I was third place. I did it.
She told me when we crossed that all that mattered to her was that she had "negative splits." I don't even know what those are. I'm sure I could look it up, but why would I? I don't run with a watch or any form of timekeeping. I'm not out there for that. I don't think.
So I hung around the race, although there were other places I needed to be. I stayed and waited for them to hand out the prizes. Freezing. In the cold windiness. It was frigid. I was elated. Life was good.
Until it wasn't. You see, this year, they decided to NOT hand out prizes to the top three finishers...only first place. Second and third place finishers were treated to some made-in-China crap medal. Mine with a sticker on the back that read, "Third Place." I was shocked. Speechless. I ran my ass off, placed, and walked away with it freaking medal. WTH?
I won't even get into the fact that the run is for charity and a religious organization. My dismay stretched far that morning. I cursed everyone from the ground up. I can shock myself with my reactions...the thoughts that cross my mind.
I brought that medal home. It felt like it weighed a ton. It was weighty and inert. It just sat there. No function. It was NOT my prized prize. It was a medal with a sticker stuck on that read, "Third Place." My mind could not compute.
I walked in the door and hung it in the kitchen. That's where I spend the bulk of my home time -- in the kitchen -- in some form of food procuring, creating, or cleaning up after. The kitchen is the center of my home life. I had something to work out with this medal, so she joined me in my kitchen. I wasn't sure what I was working out. But she and I were going to do some serious talking. And we did. Mostly me. I cursed her all week. And she took it. Like the lifeless blob of nothingness that she was. She just sat there all week long and took my stares, my snide comments, my lack of respect. She was like a doormat, a wet noodle, a peeled zero. She was so not a coffee cup.
One evening, one of my boys, picked her up and held her in his hands. He remarked about how proud he was of me for placing. He asked about the emblem on the front. "Why is Texas on here? I don't get it." "It's not Texas," I explained. "It's a dove and a cross. It just looks like Texas." For my Texas-sized anger, I thought to myself. My sweet boy replaced that medal, Texas side out -- no more "Third Place" staring at me.
The very next morning I came out and I doled out my morning glare in her direction, and I was shocked at what I saw. She must have been telling me all week. But I was too busy talking to listen. She was just laid open there, defenseless, with her true message.
Run for Relief, the medal read. On the Texas side, that is. Run for Relief. Oh. My. God. Run for Relief.
Of course. I had it all wrong. I don't run for prizes. I run for relief. I run to run. For the time spent doing it, not the whittling away of seconds off my time. I run for relief, to work out life's troubles, to mend the broken places in me. I run because I run, not because of negative splits or the competitive spirit or the outcome. I run for the journey. The miles of roadway and trails. The scenery. The quiet. The measured pace of my breathing. The using of my able body. The aloneness of it. The peace. The dove. The faith.
I run for relief. The run IS my prize. I get it. I. So. Very. Much. Get. It.
The race gets underway and the conditions are less than friendly. It's cold, windy, cloudy, muddy. Much of the course is off road in slippery, gritty mud. I could feel my hips working extra hard to keep me from sliding. I shortened my strides and slowed my pace. I felt the bits of cold, hard mud fling on to my legs and back, saw splatters on my glasses. All was going fairly well into the last mile, when I tired out. Really tired out.
***Insert a completely random aside: The one song that seems to fit this race the most is this.
The finish to this race is half a lap around a track. As we entered the arena, a woman came up alongside me. I looked quickly. But I could not tell her age. She wasn't young. She wasn't old. Was she my age? I watched her pull ahead of me and I let her go on. I was done. And then, I heard my very own self say to me, "If you don't try, if you let her cross the finish line ahead of you, and she's third place, you will hate yourself later. You have to try. Just try." So I kicked it into high gear, not sure I had much more left in me. Pulled past her. Crossed the finish line exactly one second ahead of her. I was third place. I did it.
She told me when we crossed that all that mattered to her was that she had "negative splits." I don't even know what those are. I'm sure I could look it up, but why would I? I don't run with a watch or any form of timekeeping. I'm not out there for that. I don't think.
So I hung around the race, although there were other places I needed to be. I stayed and waited for them to hand out the prizes. Freezing. In the cold windiness. It was frigid. I was elated. Life was good.
Until it wasn't. You see, this year, they decided to NOT hand out prizes to the top three finishers...only first place. Second and third place finishers were treated to some made-in-China crap medal. Mine with a sticker on the back that read, "Third Place." I was shocked. Speechless. I ran my ass off, placed, and walked away with it freaking medal. WTH?
I won't even get into the fact that the run is for charity and a religious organization. My dismay stretched far that morning. I cursed everyone from the ground up. I can shock myself with my reactions...the thoughts that cross my mind.
I brought that medal home. It felt like it weighed a ton. It was weighty and inert. It just sat there. No function. It was NOT my prized prize. It was a medal with a sticker stuck on that read, "Third Place." My mind could not compute.
I walked in the door and hung it in the kitchen. That's where I spend the bulk of my home time -- in the kitchen -- in some form of food procuring, creating, or cleaning up after. The kitchen is the center of my home life. I had something to work out with this medal, so she joined me in my kitchen. I wasn't sure what I was working out. But she and I were going to do some serious talking. And we did. Mostly me. I cursed her all week. And she took it. Like the lifeless blob of nothingness that she was. She just sat there all week long and took my stares, my snide comments, my lack of respect. She was like a doormat, a wet noodle, a peeled zero. She was so not a coffee cup.
One evening, one of my boys, picked her up and held her in his hands. He remarked about how proud he was of me for placing. He asked about the emblem on the front. "Why is Texas on here? I don't get it." "It's not Texas," I explained. "It's a dove and a cross. It just looks like Texas." For my Texas-sized anger, I thought to myself. My sweet boy replaced that medal, Texas side out -- no more "Third Place" staring at me.The very next morning I came out and I doled out my morning glare in her direction, and I was shocked at what I saw. She must have been telling me all week. But I was too busy talking to listen. She was just laid open there, defenseless, with her true message.
Run for Relief, the medal read. On the Texas side, that is. Run for Relief. Oh. My. God. Run for Relief.
Of course. I had it all wrong. I don't run for prizes. I run for relief. I run to run. For the time spent doing it, not the whittling away of seconds off my time. I run for relief, to work out life's troubles, to mend the broken places in me. I run because I run, not because of negative splits or the competitive spirit or the outcome. I run for the journey. The miles of roadway and trails. The scenery. The quiet. The measured pace of my breathing. The using of my able body. The aloneness of it. The peace. The dove. The faith.
I run for relief. The run IS my prize. I get it. I. So. Very. Much. Get. It.
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