Running away from death (or towards it)

I've been obsessing over a minute for a three days now.

Last Saturday I ran the Weston Fest 5k, and let me say at the start that it was a great race. It was cheap — $10 with T-shirt, $5 without. (I took the shirt; it says "Village of Weston" on the back, and I'm starting to collect items of clothing that have a sense of place with them). It had a great course that included the Birch Street bike/pedestrian bridge over Highway 29. (All bike/ped bridges are just cool and a car honked encouragingly when my fellow competitors were crossing it.) And it had a nice field of runners, about 200 or so, I reckon, athletes of all ages. (Including most of the members of the  D.C. Everest High School cross country team, who trounced everybody, I think. Shouldn't the WIAA do something about that?)

The race started and ended at Kennedy Park, and I knew the course had a good, long hill, the one going south on Birch Street heading toward Ministry Saint Clare's Hospital. So my plan was to run even and steady up the hill, then push hard on the downhill stretch past Everest High to the finish.

It was good plan, and it worked great. I ran the first mile in nine minutes and felt good about that. (I realize that nine-minute miles are a very pedestrian pace for most runners. But it's brisk for me, and besides the numbers really don't matter. It's all about the spirit behind the numbers.)

I felt strong throughout the race, especially going up the hill. Strong and steady, just like I had planned. I got a bit gassed on the downhill, but hey, I thought it's OK. With about a half mile to go, and the finish in sight, I looked at my watch. It said 27 minutes.

What?!  How could that be? I knew the race was over. My goal was to beat 27:30, my time from the last 5k I ran, a few weeks ago in Moorhead, MN. I had biked about 60 miles before that race, and it was hot and humid. I struggled throughout the whole three miles, and the only thing that saved me was that Moorhead is not as flat as a pancake, but flatter.

So everything about the Weston race pointed to a good time. Not a top three time, not a winning time, but a good time for me, who I am, what I am and where I am in my life and fitness level. So when I saw that 27 minutes, everything just deflated and while I pushed to the end, my heart wasn't in it. A girl, she looked like she was about 12, and her dad both outsprinted me at the finish.

I ended up with a time of 28:32. I know it's only 20 seconds per mile or so slower than the Moorhead race. So what's the big deal?

The big deal is that I had birthday between the races. The big deal is that I still believe I can run a 5k in 21 minutes or so, like I used to when I was in high school. I know, I know. It doesn't really make any sense, but it's there anyway. I'm 46 years old now, and I'm facing the inevitability that I won't be able to improve my times at all, that I'll just have to accept the reality of aging and humanity and life, and know that my times will decline.

So it's not just about the 20 seconds per mile. It's about being 46 years old and realizing that life is finite, and that there are many more things to come that will be slower, or the last or whatever.

My running career -- yeah, I'm calling it that -- isn't anywhere near over. It's been punctuated by a lot more losses than victories, and always, always, I toe another starting line and keep on running. This won't be any different.  I hope to run until I'm 90. I'll find new ways to find meaning and joy from running and biking and competing in races.

And maybe I'll run a 5k in 21 minutes again, sometime.