Good Girls Don't Always Finish First

She was tall and thin with black curly hair, and she barely registered on my radar except in that way all naturally fluffy people such as myself notice the uber-thin; it was a half jealous and half ‘somebody get her a sandwich’ kind of way.  It was race morning, and I was too focused on my case of pre-race jitters to pay too much attention to anyone else, although I knew I recognized her from other local races. 

That morning before I left, Kelly had asked if I wanted him to come watch.  Running races as an adult is sort of embarrassing.  It’s not like when you’re a kid, and you believe the greatest privilege anyone could hope for is to watch you perform one of your many random acts of greatness.  What do you really hope to accomplish as a not-so-fast adult in a small-town 5K?  The best I could possibly do was place in my age division but only because there wouldn’t be many running in that category to start with.  It’s like winning third place in a beauty pageant with only four contestants.  There’s a trophy, sure, but no glory.  

I came in second of two runners.
I smile to cover my shame.

I assured Kelly there was no need for him to leave the house at the heinie-crack of dawn to come watch me do something I did most days of the week, and that for me it was just like my normal morning run- I would just have some company.

Despite all this sensibility and practicality, there I was, fidgeting with my headphones and running app, and feeling the butterflies build in my stomach.  I’ve ran a handful of 5Ks, but it doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself it’s NO BIG DEAL, I always feel as though I’m going to throw up before I even start.

There was a pretty good crowd there, including Olive Oil, and we all took off at the starter’s signal.  We were on my stomping grounds in Calico Rock – the place that I always do my runs if possible – down a quiet little park through which a wide creek flows, past the ghost town of old Calico Rock, and down a sandy road no more than ten feet from the cold, trout-filled White River. 

Seriously!  Does anyone have a prettier place
to run??

Some participants took off like farts in a whirlwind, some were walking, and then there were those of us in the middle.  My only goal was to finish the race in less than thirty minutes, so I tried to not worry myself about the people around me.  I settled into my pace and focused on my music.

It takes serious motivational music for me to run.  By serious motivational music, I mean loud, angry rap music with a strong, steady bass.  Oftentimes after a good run, I feel an unexplained urge to bust a cap in somebody or knock over a convenience store.  When my country-loving adult friends accidentally spy my playlists, I claim that I’m researching popular music in a continued effort to better connect with my students. 

So, it was me and Eminem, and I was determined to lose myself in the music and take advantage of my one opportunity to blow, when I realized tall, dark, and cadaverous was on my heels.  I should have let her go on by without a second thought.  I should have kept to original goal, which did not involve beating anything or anyone but my current personal best time.  I should have offered to take her to Subway for that sandwich she so obviously needed, but I happened to glance ahead, and saw her family cheering her on.  Her husband and son were there, at the race, and were now yelling at her, spurring her on to pass… me?!?

Well, I don’t think so.  The fiery dragon of competition lifted his head inside my bosom and demanded that I stay in front of her.  I made like Gandolf and declared that she “SHALL NOT PASS!!”  We were approaching Calico’s version of Heartbreak Hill – a short forty-five degree incline coming out of the river valley and back into the old part of town.  Skinny Minnie was literally breathing down my neck, her husband and son were jumping and screaming, and I turned on the afterburner.  I ran up that hill like a jackrabbit with a wolf on its tail.

She stayed close to me.  I know that in her mind, the honor and love of her family was at stake.  I know she was trying to pass me before she got out of sight of her beloved ones so they see her glory, and I KNOW she was thinking I eat too many sandwiches.  She could eat my shorts though and so could her supportive family because as we turned the corner and passed out of sight, I was still in the lead. 

My heart was pounding, my legs were made of lead, and my breath was coming in ragged puffs.  I was running faster than I ever did in my daily workouts.  All I could hope for was that Long-Legged Sally was running beyond her endurance too, but she pulled even with me as we went into the last mile of the race. 

The final mile was a half-mile back down the park, a turn around, and then a mad dash back along the same road.  There were three loops at the end of the road, and a volunteer was standing at the third, and farthest, loop to mark how far runners needed to go.  Knock-Kneed was still running with me, but I had spent months practicing how to ‘finish strong’ and knew I had it in me to sprint the last two tenths of the mile.  My racing goal had drastically altered, and I prayed she wouldn’t be ready for the ‘speed’ I was about to unleash. 

This is where it all went to heck in a hand basket.  As we neared the end of the road and were approaching the final loop, Hatchet-Faced Biddy veered off and looped back toward the finish line at the FIRST LOOP!  I slowed and looked at her astonishment, and then looked at the race volunteer, expecting her to call Cheater-Pants back.  Instead, she made huge hand motions AT ME, and yelled, “This is the turn-around!”

The scene of the crime

You know how it went from there.  I had to keep running down the road while the malnourished fraudster was already headed back toward victory.  Jackie Joyner-Kersee couldn’t have caught her at that point.  She was so far ahead of me as we came down those last tenths of the mile that I had no hope of catching her, aaaaaaand sure enough, her husband and son had made it back to the finish line in time to celebrate her big win over… me.

I kept thinking the race volunteer would show up and disqualify her, but no.  As we stood there in the crowd getting the awards, she got first in our age group, and I got second.  The whole time I was giving her my evil eyeball.  If I’d had a chicken leg to shake at her, I would have tried a voodoo curse.  I wanted to confront her, but there was that whole “We’re Adults” thing, and I didn’t want to look like a sore loser.

I vowed vengeance that day.  I knew there would be other races and other opportunities, and that I would one day blow. her. out. of. the. water, but that summer we started renovations on our house and then school started back and then basketball season started, and by that time I had quit running completely.

Well, I’m coming back.  I’m only walking and jogging now, but it won’t be long.  My eye is on you, Underfed Infidel.  You and I will meet on the racecourse again. 

I hope that since the day of your deceit, guilt has niggled at the corners of your mind whenever you look at your winner’s plaque, which is no doubt displayed prominently in your home.  When we step to the starter’s line surrounded by thirty or forty runners, you will feel the heat of my gaze and know that the competition really only has two contestants.  My husband and children will be there cheering me on.  When the winner of the Women’s Age 40-44 plaque is called, you will not step forward.  I probably won’t either.  The only thing I do know is that I will finish the race ahead of you. 

Consider the gauntlet thrown.