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Chapter 6

Running in Public

“I’m looking for packet pickup,” I told the running-store clerk. It was the day before my first race, the inaugural Steps for Sarcoma 5k.

A trim young woman smiled knowingly from behind a folding table stacked with T-shirts and plastic bags. She looked up my name, then handed me a T-shirt, a “bib” with my race number, and a plastic sack filled with flyers and four safety pins. I thought I should buy something, but none of their socks appealed, so I left, clutching the bag like a child holding Halloween candy.

To quell my fears, I’d researched race etiquette and asked the Penguins. The safety pins were for the bib. It went on the front. Putting it on the back meant you were an amateur. I was an amateur but wanted no one to know.

Ed and I had driven the course the week before after I’d looked at the race website which had an impressive online course map. I’d only just started using the technology. As we drove the streets of the neighborhood near the park, I imagined myself running them. We walked through the park to get a feel for it.

I’d already walked or run nearly that far. On race day, the bib would be the difference. In addition to my number, 18, the bib bore a computer chip to track when I crossed both the start and finish lines and record my time and pace. Plus, people would be watching. I was still apprehensive about running in public, but willing to try, since it was for a good cause. Ed agreed to take pictures.

The night before the race, I went with friends to an Amish restaurant, where I filled my plate with mashed potatoes and gravy, carb-loading despite the articles I’d read condemning this time-honored tradition. The articles had been about marathons, not 5ks, but I ate as if it were a marathon.

***

On race morning, a bright autumn day, I made the mistake of saying the word “run” while dressing, and Morgan dashed over. With the dog underfoot, I pulled on my new running bra and a Kelly-green tank which read, “If found on ground, please drag across finish line.” I hoped I wasn’t borrowing trouble. I pulled on the running shoes, since I didn’t think my water shoes were sturdy enough. Plus, someone might think them odd.

We don’t call Morgan the “ever-hopeful dog” for nothing. He continued to track me, even as I explained that a race was different. “There might not be other dogs,” I said. He parked himself next to the door of “his” closet, where his leash hangs, and gave me his most pathetic look. He only budged when I dropped a few bites of food into his dish to bribe him into the kitchen, where we keep him while we’re gone so he doesn’t eat the sofa pillows. He gobbled the food. I patted his big, square head and climbed into the car with Ed.

As Ed pulled up to the park, I saw runners with dogs. “I could have brought Morgan,” I muttered, but just as quickly said, “Not today.” Ed agreed. Better to run this first one solo.

***

My anxiety turned to excitement when I saw the race flags, people milling about, and the inflatable arch marking the start and finish. We gathered near the start with my sister, sister-in-law, surviving niece, her in-laws, and my friends Debbie and Krista. This was the same Krista who I’d told I was a “private runner.” My brother would have joined us, but he was out of the country on business.

The little girl inside me imagined the crowd had come to see my first race. This was my graduation from training, completing the journey the dog and I had begun six months before, when I’d run for sixty seconds carrying a digital timer through the ravine. The training takes most people nine weeks. With my wonky ankle and depressed mind, it took me nearly twenty.

But the sadness on my sister’s face reminded me why we were there. We would remember those we’d lost, celebrate the survivors, raise money, all while getting exercise. It had been a mere three years since Amy’s vibrant daughter was among the living, and the race wouldn’t bring Jamey back. My sister and I shared a tearful hug.

***

The Penguins suggested I line up according to pace, in front of the walkers, but behind faster runners. I asked folks their pace. A woman with a baby stroller said, “I’m walking.” A man behind her said, “I’m injured, so I’ll be slow.” I tucked myself between them, and my friends and family joined me. Ed walked past the first turn to wait.

The siren went off, and our chatty group walked across the start line. When we came to where Ed stood, he took a picture then asked, “Aren’t you supposed to be running?” I’d forgotten. “I’ll see you at the finish!” I sped ahead, but runners weaved around me as I jogged. What kind of runner forgot to run? I shook that off. “Go easy. Just finish.”

The course circled the park. Slogans written in chalk on the path cheered, “Beat cancer!” and “Every footstep counts!” People passed. A young girl. Two boys. A woman with a stroller. A woman with a dog. I let them go.

On a small hill, I slowed to thank the police officer who motioned us into a residential neighborhood of two-story houses with manicured lawns. Near the crossing, a cyclist flew toward us, yelling, “Front runners coming through!” The first male, a wiry young man in a singlet and split shorts, sped past the officer and onto the path having already finished the two miles I had yet to go. I didn’t know if it was appropriate, but when he passed, I whooped and hollered.

A group of giggling girls in matching “Sarcoma” T-shirts passed me near mile one. My mood sagged. I tried to remember to relax and lean the way Doug, my ChiRunning instructor, had told us, but the street was wide and nearly empty. A handful of walkers followed, but no other runners. I’ll be last, I thought, struggling to lift my heavy legs. Then I remembered my goal: have fun and finish upright. On to the water stop.

At the intersections, volunteers cheered and blared car radios or rang cowbells. Feeling my arms swing and my weight shift, I found a rhythm. The meditative sway of my body calmed me, and the adrenaline made me glow. I may have looked like an overweight, middle-aged woman plodding through the suburban streets, but I felt like the T-shirt, “In my mind I’m a Kenyan.”

I talked myself through the next hill. I frequently ran hills in my neighborhood. This was just another. But around the corner was a much larger hill, one I hadn’t noticed when Ed and I had driven the course. My breath grew raspy. Again, I slowed, panting, lightheaded, and sad. “You’re not a runner. You can’t even run a 5k. Look at you in your silly T-shirt and expensive shoes. Who do you think you are?” Near tears, I let the voices roll across me. I watched the pavement pass beneath my feet. One step. Two steps. Three steps. Four.

When someone yelled, “Great job!” I barely looked. But a police officer leaning against the hood of her car caught my eye. I raised my head. I was almost up the hill! I waved and kept going.

At the top, several young children held cups of water. Two girls smiled while a little boy looked at the ground. I pushed toward him and slowed to look into his eyes. “Thank you!” I said, and he rewarded me with the tiniest smile.

Around the corner, we headed back toward the park and past the two-mile sign. Ahead was the giggling gaggle of girls, now walking. I remembered the y’chi (pronounced ee-chee) I’d learned in ChiRunning, and focused on the girls to pull myself down the road. I also imagined a bull’s-eye on their backs with a rope attached to pull me toward them. The space between us slowly closed. Absorbed in each other’s company, they didn’t notice me passing them. For a moment, I remembered my niece giggling with her friends and I grew short of breath, but then remembered how brave she had been during the treatment. I was running in her honor.

Back at the park, I thanked the officer again. It seemed hours since that first runner had passed. I checked my watch, but I’d forgotten to start it. So much for fancy equipment.

With half a mile to go, I sped up. Relax and lean. Near the small library, I passed a woman with a stroller. Up a small incline and into the wooded area, I saw the “Beat Cancer” sign again. My breath came in gasps as I tearfully thought of Jamey. The finish line was to my right, but I didn’t look. I passed the spot where Ed had been. Heart racing, I pumped my arms and legs. A runner ahead took a sharp right. I followed. The finish line lay just ahead. My heartbeat pumped in my ears. The large black clock read 42-something. Determined to beat 43:00, I swept past the clock, beneath the arch, and across the timing mats in 42:16. It felt like flying.

Ed hugged and kissed me. I hugged my friends and family who’d done the fun walk.

Exhausted and proud, I went to the shelter house for a banana and water, then back to the finish to wait for Krista. We watched people of all shapes, sizes, and abilities come in. The number of finishers dwindled. Still no Krista. I scanned the empty course and began to worry. In the weeks leading up to the race, she’d been having coordination problems due to a medication. The race crew was packing up.

I told them, “My friend hasn’t finished.” A man spoke into a walkie-talkie.

“The sweep car picked her up,” he said.