My first race

Sunday was my first race, as an adult, anyway. I certainly did races as a kid. We did lots of races in the old 'hood, on foot and bike.
As a teen, I'd race my horse, Golden Diamond, a tall old, lanky Tennessee Walker mix against the horses that shared the 300 acre lease with us in what use to be the fields on the edge of Hurst, Texas. There was one spot we loved best, a big bean patch with bean plants over 5 feet tall and so thick you couldn't see more than 2 feet in front of you. The horses always knew where to go, they'd run through those beans fearlessly, knowing when to veer to the left or the right a bit, to keep us going. We were all fearless, then. Diamond was taller than the "better bred" Quarterhorses and Arabians, so we had an advantage in the bean patch. We'd also do pole races, send our horses weaving through a long column of 10 foot poles. We time each other by counting 1-1000, 2-1000, 3-1000....close enough for us.

Sunday's race was different.
The Race for The Cure, the race to end breast cancer, raise money for awareness, research, medical care and to raise the spirits of the survivors and those who lost loved ones to the disease was all on foot, timed with special chips and attended by tens of thousands of people.
It was my first race since turning into a runner. It was only a 5K ( 3 miles for those of us who didn't pay attention during the metric system chapter).

I had lots of names on my back: In celebration of Charlie Young, Rita (my friend James' sister) and Carla Cook, Annalise's step mom. In memory of Donna Dittman, a friend's Mom, Nancy Clay, (James' mom) and Gail, a woman I knew briefly in Seattle, only because she died shortly after her breast cancer metastized in her liver.

I expected emotion, I expected tears. I didn't expect the rush out of the starting gate, out into the crowd of runners, running faster than I should be, high on excitement, adrenaline, emotion, tears and the music. I felt myself spring out fast, too fast and for a moment, I couldn't slow down, I was running on some other person's command. I was out of the gate and about to burn myself out. I finally slowed a bit, found my pace and tried to stay with it through the race.
As we moved down the street toward the state capital building, we passed people holding signs, yelling encouragement, passing out water, playing music, telling us to "keep on going". Every time I saw one of those signs, I wanted to cry, I was overcome, overwhelmed, physically, mentally, all of the ways possible.

We rounded the capital and I saw we had just passed the 2 mile mark. Only one mile to go, normally easy, normally one more mile is no big deal. This time, I was pumping, pushing and it was hot for November. I thought about walking for a few seconds, I knew if I did, I'd lose some faith in myself, some contract I'd made with myself to keep on going. I am doing a marathon in February and one thing I've learned is that endurance, at least for me, is mental as much as physical. Going an extra lap at the end of every run is my way of teaching myself that I can do this, of having the mental discipline to push myself past the point of what I think I know I can do.
And this was just three miles. This wasn't a chemo treatment. This wasn't a stint in the hospital. This was easy.
I kept going.
We met up with some therapy dogs who barked us out from the capital grounds and back on the street and up a hill. We rounded a few more turns, we ran on and on and then I could see the row of pink and white balloons, I heard the announcers, I saw my friend who finished before me cheering me on, I was in tears again, I ran across the finish line, flushed, tired and happy. Diamond would have been proud.