10 k

I barely noticed the pat-pat of her feet as she came up on my left, but then she apologized for pacing me, and said she wouldn’t be here long. She didn’t indicate that I would be staring at her retreating backside in a few minutes or anything, just jogged there while we got acquainted. Like speed daters, we found out each other’s life history in the few minutes between gasps for air. She is 75 freaking years old, running the 10 K, has climbed Old Rag twice, and then did the Peaks yesterday (Peaks of Otter). I’m trying to figure out how I feel about that when a man about 10 years younger than me comes panting up on my right, and passes us both, flinging sweat from his soggy grey tee shirt. My children were still visible ahead of me at this point, only 3 miles into the run. I get into the serious business of making time after our chat, leaving sweaty guy in my dust and catching up with my kids who are speed walking, not running, to accommodate my slower pace. I caught up with them 20 times or more, running to their walk until I reached mile 5, always wondering why they marked the kilometer race with mile signs. The hill just past mile 5 loomed before me like Mt Everest, and instead of putting on speed, I slowed and contemplated the pain it would cost me to run up that rise. Walking, even speed walking did not bring me closer to my children’s gradually diminishing figures as they turned the corner and vanished. Still, I told myself that I was ahead of some of the pack as I put distance between the graying elders behind me. Somewhere between mile 5 and 6 the sweet little 75 year old and the sweaty guy passed me. I cursed the fact that I had given a pint of blood on Friday, cursed the bad knee and the pain in my hip bones, cursed the number of days on my 228 sign, even cursed the bowl of cereal with soy milk that had been my inadequate breakfast. It was better than facing the fact that I was not in shape for the challenge of actually running only a bit over 6 miles. With the finish line in sight I put on a push, the sideline volunteers cheering me on like Special Olympics coaches. I was really doing all I could when the 75 year old and sweaty man passed me cruising across the beeping mat minutes ahead of me. The final results I just received indicated that I ended third in my age group, tenth overall. Instead of making me happy, I once again cursed the two that finished ahead of me in my “age group”. I am not taking this aging thing well, I know.

Tonight I danced to the happy tunes of Grupo Fantasma at the Folk Festival with my darling daughter in luv, while my husband carried my purse around looking for me. Found, he toted me home like a wayward child with my feet still moving to the Latin beat. Earlier we listened to our lifelong friend do a show that sounded like an act of desperation, a long winded story about chickens for God’s sake, and tunes so out of step with the present reality they were embarrassing. He had given us his health information when we caught him before the show; two heart attracts and bypass surgery. He flirted with my beautiful DIL like he had some kind of chance with her, and told us he had a new woman, an Alaskan that was kicking his butt. He talked about how old we had gotten, meaning himself I suppose, but not really. He has been a player all his life, given up everything for the music except the belief that he still has the fire down below. I remember the day when I realized I was as grown up as I was ever going to be and got down to the business of life. Now I am hoping someone will tell me when I have become old, but not today, please, not today.