It’s a fairly known fact that airplanes and runners perform better in the cold than in the heat. When the race leaders announced on Friday that there would be record high temperatures on race day, the collective groan across cyberspace was audible. However, Mother Nature, in her usual humorous and fickled mood, had begun the day in glorious sunshine before changing her mind sending a wall of fog rolling off the gulf. By the time I arrived at the starting line with my daughter and one of her friends, it was so dense that the local airport had closed. This was going to be an interesting competition.
The first quarter mile is always difficult for me as my heart and lungs go to war with my brain, so I stayed away from the amassing crowd to stretch and gently run a half mile just before the starting gun. I felt nervous but good.
Because this was only a 3 and 6K charity run, a very diverse crowd participated. There are always the pros, who look like sinewy Roman gods stepping out of mythology books, groups of teen girls looking like lithe ponies, the high school track team, friendly snowbirds there to earn a t-shirt with a been there done that attitude, and a host if others in between. There were about four hundred people there by my counts, and the printed tables showed that there were 23 people in my age category.
With our numbers pinned, shoes tied with timing chips, and squinting into the gray shrouding the path in front of us, we gathered ourselves in a tightly-packed lump at the start. With a few butterflies and nervous energy, I stepped side to side chatting with the runner next to me, and in what seemed like a week, the gun fired. The super-competitive launched like rockets from the front, the regular runners ran en masse with frustated and slow steps in their pack, and the rest of us fell behind. Deciding that I would rather pass people than do the pack run, I took off near the back.
Determined not to sprint too quickly at first, I focused on dodging the walkers and runners in the back, and started picking out the familiar magnolias, river oaks, benches, and nests shrouded in the pea soup. Water was already condensing in my hair and making the running surface slick, but In a half mile I settled in to a steady but decidedly faster place then usual, and put my brain and feet into cruise control.
Mostly keeping my eyes ahead for the ghost-like figures in front of me, I would set my eyes on a particular runner with the goal of passing while, likewise, others did the same with me. I passed my share, and was likewise passed. The fastest runners were far in the distance by now unseen, not because of the fog but because of their speed and distance.
Familiar with the route, I didn’t have to depend on the guides pointing and shouting out turns or look to hard for the directional signs, and when I reached the last bridge a mile out, I tucked down my head,and sprinted with all I had. Huffing puffing, drenched, and elated to have finished, I looked up to see the finish and my time. Not bad.
The after party was at a local restaurant on the beach. Because this is a fairly small down, there were many familiar faces and the runners enjoyed a full lunch (which I can never eat) and laughter while the results were tallied. A nice acoustic band played familiar Jack Johnson tunes until the organizers handed out the awards. Over the happy din, they began with the door prizes and transitioned into the awards.
Lost in a conversation with a fellow runner just outside the restaurant, I was taken aback when a friend ran up, grabbed me by the arm, and urgently said, “They are calling your name!”
Confused and expecting that I might had won a door prizes, I reached out expecting an envelope and was thoroughly surprised when they called out my pace of 8:29 and handed me a medal that read “First Place” for my ancient, fossilized age group.
Blushing and self-conscious, I moved away quickly and took the steps gingerly off of the stage, determined not to fall and break a hip in front of the entire gulf coast. I guess I’m not dead yet, but there are rumors floating about about my racing retirement 
.
Now I can’t wait to eat all the curry I want and get back to my solitary soulful running. I am too old for this stuff 
(I am having trouble posting a race pic and will give it another go later, so I have briefly substituted a pre-run photo in my album. It’s a bit odd, but I thought it better to crop my daughter’s friends out of it).
…Not posteriors!
