The foggy overcast morning was perfect. It was early, much earlier than I normally agree to be up on a Saturday. My nervousness made me forget to take my asthma medicine, which I would later regret. It was odd, watching as all these people, young and old, were attempting to do the same feat. I was just one of many, 421 to be exact, and our goal was the same – simply to finish.
Pound, pound, pound, pound, breathe. Pound, pound, pound, pound, breathe. The rhythm of my feet felt good. My breath a bit labored, but steady. I run, I walk. I run, I walk. For 6.2 miles, the time flies because I am joined by a fabulous friend. I finish. Not last, but not so good either (321 place – 1:13:12 total).
I see why it is addicting. The tiny timing chips are intriguing – it is that little bit of technology that makes the accuracy of the whole race so amazing. And it is the timing that makes people do this over and over, to be better, to beat oneself, and to not finish last.