Mini Report

For the first time in a very long time I felt ready. Ready packed, ready state of mind, ready legs, rea- … pac- … ready? Oh $%#! The packet!

Scrambling through my confirmation book, I hoped there would be an exception to the cardinal rule of no race day packet pick up for Goliath races such as the one I was going to run – I hoped – in about twelve hours. …come on… flip, where is it… flip… …flip flip flip…

Still three hours out at least, we wouldn’t arrive until 9:30 p.m. …flip…flipppppp..pp…ppp…pahhh!

The Expo closes at 9:00 p.m. blah blah yeah yeah, who cares, where is it… come on…blah blah "… NO RACE DAY PACKET PICK UP."$#%! "NO EXCEPTIONS." $#%!... $#%!!! .

It was sprawled across the fine print in obnoxious capital red letters, as if to squash all impending ”…but maybes…” and “…well, buts…” out there.

Whatever. Where’s my phone?

Ashley answered at the security desk of the convention center. She wasn’t from race city, she wasn’t from anywhere near it.

Listening to her slowed down the mile-a-minute rabble in my mind as I tried to place her accent… Texas? Tennessee? For a second I even forgot what a brand name on the end cap kind of a moron I was for not leaving earlier to pick up my packet.

“Aww girl, aw-right, look…we’ll getcha fixed up. Hang on a sec, lemme call the race director and see ‘bout seein’ t’this.” slow down…breathe…slow down…

Michael Bolton invaded my ear as she put me on hold. A problematically perky woman almost immediately, fortunately, interrupted him with commercial interludes for the race that I might not be able to run. Someone somewhere was having a good laugh, I just knew it. The longer I had to listen to Michael Bolton being interrupted by the female equivalent of the Sunday! SUNDAY! Sunday! guy, I became more annoyed with myself for making such a stupid mistake. Finally, Ashley came back.

“Hon, you still there? “

“Yeah, yeah yeah…”

“Aw-right, well, they ain’t gonna let us hold your packet fer ya, but listen, the director said if you can be at the start line b‘tween 5:00 and 6:00 tomorrow mornin’ and not any later, somebody’ll getcha fixed up. Find one a them folks with the ‘ask me’ shirt on and they’ll send you to where ya need t’go.”

Houston, we have OCD ignition.

Oh, much too vague for such an important thing… I needed to know who, exactly where, what color the shirt was supposed to be, a name for crap’s sake… not ‘go find some dude in a t-shirt’ uggggggggghhhhhhhh. Need. Tangibles. Details. Fail Safes.

“Ashley,” I said, trying not to sound like an ungrateful nutbag, “um, whooo… OK. 'Ask Me' shirt people will be there, I find one, tell them I need to pick up my packet, even though it says no race day pick-up, no exception in big red annoying freakin’ letters, but I tell them that this is an exception and so it’s cool because…?” I held my breath and hoped she wouldn't think I was a too much of a threat to society at large.

I had to ask because they would ask. They always ask. It’s never cool. You must double and triple check everything. Every single time. No one talks to each other. No one confirms anything. Ever. You must absolutely make sure everything – every time – is in order for yourself. Ask no favors and maybe you won't be dissapointed. If you want something done, do it yourself because no one comes through - no one goes above and beyond. Never. Ever. Except Ashley.

“Sweetheart, you’ll be fine, girl. I just talked to the director.” She laughed like ice in lemonade. …slow down… breathe….slow… “They’ll know yer comin’, tell ‘em Gabe said it’s fine. You’ll be fine, girl. Don’t worry, just run and have a good race.”

I could hear her smiling, and thanked her for a long time before I hung up the phone.

We pulled into the hotel parking lot, which was about a block from the finish line. I was wired and couldn’t sleep, but was too tired to do much of anything else. We walked to an Italian restaurant at 10:00 p.m., and sat down next to what looked to be an about to be married couple. I say this because the guy was jabbering on just as much as the girl, almost as dead a giveaway as the fact that the girl only wore a single ring.

They looked like Skipper, Barbie’s little sister, and her named only out of obligation boyfriend, Todd. Both were blond and wide-blue-eyed. I don’t know why they were so fascinating to me. Maybe it was because their mouths were in perpetual motion from the time we sat down to the time they left. In the meantime, they soon became a kitchen appliance background buzz.

I wanted to talk but couldn’t get the words dislodged from my head, I wanted to eat but couldn't figure out what. What the hell was the matter with me? Tired, I guessed. So after a little bruschetta (which my husband makes way better than this place did), chicken, fettuccini and broccoli, we headed back to the hotel.



For the longest time I lie awake, and suddenly in the middle of picking apples with the express intent of going home to hang them on a Christmas tree, the wake up call came. Sleep diluted the charge I had for the most part, and at 4:30 a.m., I was calmer as we walked to meet the ‘Ask Me’ shirt people.

There were no ‘Ask Me’ shirt people anywhere.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu- igures.

I started chewing my lip and walking faster.

What the hell with all these military people around here? There were green cammies everywhere, guys lining up in formation, guarding posts ….wh-? Ohhhhhhh, the equipment and medical tents. Military Park. Wow. Wow…. Check them out…

The sun was nowhere even near coming up yet. ....slow down….

Half of a wild goose-chase later, we were directed to a pace car trailer. Inside, certainly, was my packet.

“Hey, come on in here and warm up.” The man we saw was impossibly nice as I explained my situation, apparently complete with visible evidence of no ‘Ask Me’ people anywhere-induced trauma. He fished my packet from a box, and when I inquired about the race bag, he told me those were all packed up and sent somewhere else, where he wasn’t sure. I scrunched my nose and smiled a little in disappointment, then thanked him for his help as we turned to go.

“Wait a sec, do you have an email, a cell number? I’m pretty good friends with the race director, we’ll get you all set up, maybe not today, but early next week? We’ll send you out the shirt and what not. I wish I could do something right now about it, I know you’re probably disappointed, it’s just no one is around right now…but don’t worry…” …breathe…

I was absolutely amazed. Why was this guy so nice? So thoughtful? He was busy as hell… why was he stopping to voluntarily help me out? ..slow…

With a few hours to kill, we walked around the race site. Green cammies everywhere, some moving, some not. None smiling. Statues and moving statues. Wow. Something about the order of them, the precision, was calming and electrifying for me all at the same time. I stared and marveled.

But suddenly there was one who was different from the others – dropped in out of nowhere to lead a few of the green cammies around while pointing and motioning with his hands. He was tall and in desert cammies. Tans and browns. Why is he different? Active duty? Where did he come from? Did he just come back? Is he about to go? And I sucked in a breath… Wa-… ah-…ohhh … the war ….

We walked past him, then organizing something, and he suddenly looked up at me. He didn’t smile, but didn’t not. Just looked right into my eyes and didn’t look away. …slow…



The sun was coming up as we headed back to the hotel for breakfast. The air started charging, I could already tell. This was race day air. This was race city. And I suddenly thought to myself, this is the season opener, the pace-setter, and that means there’s only one morning like this. I started crawling out of my weird little world.

The start line was crowded, buzzing, picture snapping, race flag blowing, siren going, a sea of huddling and perpetual nervous potty dancing. After the starting horn, we all shuffled for about 10 minutes to actually begin the race; it takes a while to get roughly 28,000 runners across the mats, after all. As soon as I got some clearing I tried to get around as many people as I could. I don’t like crowds, nor running so close to anyone, so I sped through them in fine OCD fashion.

The first thing I saw after getting some clearing was the Flag whipping around above my head, and above the heads of the thousands of people all around me. So much commotion, but in that moment everything was quieted. I thought of the suddenly soldier in desert cammies, what he was doing right now, where his day would take him, his week, his year. I thought of everyone overseas right now, of the ones who were going, and of the so very many who, both now and over time, have never come home. I thought of all this against a muffled backdrop of garage band Beatles as I headed down the block. …slow….breathe…

The first mile was on track to being nine minutes until the end of that block. There, just as “Get Back” was getting into full swing, I reminded myself that I wasn’t out here for a PR, or to prove anything other than that I’d once and for all learned how to pace myself. So, I slowed down. I let older women pass me. I admired their smiling faces, their wrinkles, all their shapes and sizes, and especially noticed one particularly athletic-looking woman in her likely late 60s. She had flowing silver hair, a medium frame much like mine, and from behind, save her hair, you’d have never been able to guess her age correctly. I resolved in that moment to be one of those women with noticeable biceps and flowing silver hair too. Then laughed to myself as I realized I was watching her as if trying to look into my future or something.

I turned my attention to the little kids lining the curbs with noisemakers, and read the silly sayings on their t-shirts. I watched the heart rate drop on my watch, and the clouds collect immediately above me, center sky.

Mile two. Ten minutes. Mile three. Ten minutes. Mile four. Ten minutes. I’ll be damned. I looked again to the spectators. A morbidly obese woman looking through her window, her family, I assumed because of their apparent resemblance, sitting on the front porch. I wondered what I’d be thinking if I were them, sitting there, watching this. I thought perhaps I’d feel angry, but not at the runners. At myself, at genetics, at wasted time, at circumstance; I thought under that swapped identity for another few blocks, long having passed the little charcoal-colored house with peeling siding.

Mile five, a traffic jam started as people filtered onto the speedway. My pace slipped a little here, I weaved in and out but couldn’t get around the crowd. I growled to myself and started getting frustrated, aggravated.

In my annoyance I looked over at the line of blue portable bathrooms and saw a mother and daughter (I assumed because they looked identical). Both had race numbers. Both were smiling and laughing. The mother put the daughter’s hair in a ponytail. They held hands, hugged, and melted back into the stream of people heading onto the track. Hey…I’m on the track?? Wh-? Huh.

…slow…breathe….

Mile six was ten minutes and some change. Just a little change. I grumbled about it for a second, then got over it. I felt good. The day was perfect. Sunny, mid 50s, cool breeze, and I was out there with 28,000 people I didn’t know, but with whom I had something very fundamental in common.

It dawned on me that for the longest time I’d lamented not having much in common with anyone, so to suddenly find myself in a sea of thousands, well, that realization put a cookie stealing smile on my face, and I looked down at the track instinctively as I laughed.

Just then I looked up and saw a runner who was walking. He was definitely a runner, well defined muscles, wiry, why would he be walking?? I started to pass him and noticed that it was a friend of ours! What were the odds!? 28,000 runners and I run into a friend… not just any friend either, but an Italian runner friend. A 3:00ish marathoner runner friend. Why the hell is John walking?

“John!!”

“Hey!!”

“Hey, what’s wrong? Why are you walking?”

“Oh, tear in my calf. Doc told me I probably shouldn’t run, but, well… you know…” He smiled his, ‘yeah, well… you know’ smile, which in turn made me smile, and I slowed a little to chat with him while he prepared to start running again (by the way, I never stopped running, this is just how fast he was walking…).

Mile seven, eight, and nine went by in a blur as John and I caught up and talked more about his injury. I felt so honored to be running with someone so accomplished and knowledge – him being injured, of course, the only way I’d ever, EVER, be able to keep up with him.

He told me about wanting to run Chicago this year with the hopes of qualifying for Boston, 2007, and I felt about five kinds of special to be able to give him a first hand account of that race since he’d never run it. I learned about his childhood friend who’d gained a lot of weight (to come in at 350 + lbs), but had come down to do the 5K this weekend after having trained on the treadmill – 18-minute-miles for an hour-and-a-half – and having lost 65 pounds already in training. Amazing. I looked around us, people of all ages, shapes and sizes, none of them perfect, and none of them any worse off for not being so. …breathe….

At mile eleven I was surprised to see that I was still on track with 10-minute miles. My muscles started feeling a little tight, but nothing worthy of much attention. I stretched for a second while at the water station and then picked back up with John, who’d slowed to wait for me.

The bands were in force now along the curbs, their music overlapping and mixing into a unique blend of rap, reggae, 60s and 80s. Spectators thickened and high-fives were abundant. Preachers with microphones were preaching something about one life, one day, my life, your life, honestly, I heard only every other phrase, which produced the compilation, Live you life today...

Mile 12.

The Beatles and nothing but The Beatles from this point on. Ob la dee, ob la dah… Life goes oooooOOOn…..la da…da…da….da….Life goes onnn………

Kids. Cameras. Carol Brooks from Lake Park…. Alvin Schwepp from Granger…. la da…da…da….da….Life goes onnn……… Clapping, ”…You made it…Wooo! You made it!! Great job, run it in!! Bob! You did it! BOB! Bob!!! Smile!!! Hey baby you did it!!!!”

I looked all over for Bob. I HAD to see Bob from the reaction of his wife/girlfriend who was in tears and running and waving and snapping a camera all at the same time. “Bob!!! You made it, babe!!! You made it!!!

I turned to the center at mile 13. Bob had to be the man with the biggest damn smile I’ve ever seen on his face. He had blood running down the front of his shirt in two blurred streams, and was obviously in pain by the looks of his hobbling stride. Maybe this was his first race, maybe he thought he’d already raced his last because of an injury that he’d proven wrong. I didn’t know. I just knew by the look on his face that he’d beaten some kind of dragon inside himself over the last few hours. And I suppose, so had I. ….slow…breathe…

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. 2:14:55

I lost sight of Bob. Hugged John. Stopped my watch less than famously interested in slapping down the math on my time. I wanted to talk, but couldn’t get the words dislodged from my head. I was Strong. Happy. Composed…. Satisfied. Finally.



And one step closer to ready.