I had thought the only down side of running a race at my age when I know full well that every time I attempt to run my left hip goes kerplewy would be that my left hip would go kerplewy. The good news is my left hip is fine, or at least no worse than it was before I trotted with a false and utterly unwarranted sense of confidence out of the starting gate. The bad news is that my right calf has been pulled so tightly I am pretty sure the muscle has turned to stone.
An adrenalin rush had conspired with a late arrival (which placed us toward the back of the pack, with the slowpokes) and basic stupidity to propel me forward much too quickly, causing me to lose my daughter and her friends in my dust almost immediately. Luckily, I at least got to enjoy my short lived exhilaration since I never bothered to look back to see the utter disdain (and horror) on my daughter's face as I weaved in and out of the packs of leisurely joggers and walkers in my way. This was, after all, the "Biggest Loser" race, and I was determined to be the biggest loser of them all. As if there was ever a contest.
About halfway through the race, I was pretty sure I might die if I didn't stop soon, although, naturally, I didn't stop, at least not immediately. No, it wasn't my calf. I was too busy struggling to breathe through the hyperventilation attack that seemed to have resulted from my explosion out of the gate to notice that my calf was screaming. After the turn, I trotted through the gasps and the sharp pains in my lungs just so I could experience the thrill of passing my daughter and her friend and giving them a superior smirk. They ignored me.
I don't know if it was good sense or an instinctive will to live that made me give up and start walking, but within less than a minute I could actually hear my heart sigh with relief and I congratulated myself for being a grown up and listening to my body. That is until the kids came up behind me and asked if I was okay. Little snots. Naturally, I pretended I had only been waiting for them to catch up, and started running alongside them, which is when I noticed the muscle in my lower leg was about to pop. I thought about telling them I was going to hang back just so as not to intrude on their fun, but I think the look of agony on my face may have given me away.
Eventually my daughter's friend who was racing on a not yet fully healed ankle injury caught up to me as I limped along, and, together, as we turned the corner and saw the balloon festooned archway of the finish line, we dug deep and mustered up all the resolve we had and ran the rest of the way. (I had wanted to save face, not let my daughter see me limp across the finish line, but by the time I arrived she had long given up waiting, and was relaxing on the grass eating energy bars and bananas; frankly, for all I know, she had been home for a shower and back, but she didn't let on.)
I learned a lot from "The Biggest Loser" race, though, and not just that it's dumb to peak too soon or that living another day is more important than running the whole way. The theme of the day was accomplishment. The crowd was atypical. Folks of all shapes and sizes -- not only the ultra-fit -- showed up to do their best. Not to win, not to beat anybody, not necessarily to even run the whole way. A recent "Biggest Loser" winner stood like a goddess at the start and finish, shouting encouragement to everyone, inspiring people who want more than anything to know what it feels like to stand in her shoes. She has lost more pounds than I can count, gained more muscle than I can imagine, but that's just the stuff on the outside. For whatever constitutes a television season, she pushed her own envelope, challenged herself, succeeded in ways she never imagined she could. The woman literally glowed, and, best of all, she is paying it forward. It's about the effort, it's about all the little setbacks along the way but staying with it. It's about accomplishment, big or small.
The pictures I posted on my Facebook page inspired a lot of congratulatory comments; it occurred to me that a lot of folks must have thought I had run a marathon, and not simply run and then limped my way through a measly little 5K. I thought about posting a clarification. This was nothing, friends I wanted to say. I couldn't even run the whole way.
But then I thought better of it. For me, at my age, in the shape I'm in, the measly little 5K was a big deal. And, the limp and the near death experience notwithstanding, the day inspired me. I appreciated the sunshine, the time with my daughter and her friends, and the feeling I got from dragging myself down there in the first place. I limped instead of calling a taxi (yay me), and I managed that two minute sprint (everything's relative; for me, it was a sprint) at the finish. And I loved the looks on the faces of people of all shapes and sizes coming in after me, the looks of pride and accomplishment and optimism.
Of course I am still reveling in the surprising good news that my left hip remains relatively intact. And I am proud to say my racing career -- in its new, hopefully gentler, form -- is far from over. Kudos to "The Biggest Loser" and all it has done for participants and viewers alike. And, by the way, you have not lived until you've seen Dolvett Quince up close and, um, in the flesh.
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