I ran my first 5K last night. For some reason when a group of friends said, “grab your shoes and let’s go,” I did, never mind that I’m a painfully slow runner. The first badge of courage came when I actually said yes. The second was when I arrived to the greeting, “aren’t you the PATH lady, you’ll dominate this;” and unlike the cowardly lion, I did not retreat. The last badge came when I whimpered, “do you guys realize I seriously only run a 15 minute mile right now.” No one heard me and poof the race began. Again, I carried on.
Five minutes into it I got a couple of humiliating calls from friends way up ahead, “How you doin?” The same friends, I mocked, who said, “Don’t worry, we’ll go slow, we’re scared too.” HA! Liars. There I was grunting along, trying to keep up and caught behind a little girl in a cute pink shirt who was determined not to let me pass. She walked mostly but every time I lumbered near her, breathing like a freight train, she’d pick up and sprint. Argh.
So not only was I in a race against my middle-aged out-of-shape self, I was now in a knock-down-drag-out with a 10-year-old. I hated that pink shirt. Good thing kids are cute because… Her mom eventually made her stop and let me go ahead. Oh my she was ticked. I spent the rest of the time thinking, “I will NOT let her catch up.” Sick, I know.
To add salt in the wound, ¾ of the way through, all alone in the woods, hating myself for wanting to be faster than Pinky, a man passed me running the race with a 3 year-old on his shoulders. Really? What, are you superdad-runnerdude?
As if I wasn’t hateful enough already, queen grumpy pants reared her head full on!
Desperate to keep as little distance between me and superdad, I picked up the pace (I had to admit he was inspiring). Young, uber-fit college kids urged me on toward the end with polite but sluggish “almost there” nods and lazy golf claps. The nausea meter reaching perilously close to tilt, I ignored my urge to punch. Running the last 50 yards I saw most of the racers pulling out of the parking lot, long finished. Ugh. I crossed the line and a man in a chair monotoned, “runner number 775, done;” which he followed with a weary “rah-rah.” Scheesh!
Well, someone had to be last I thought as I stumbled toward my group of fresh faced friends all chatty with one another.
“Hey! You did it!” one hollered. “Shush shush” I whispered with a tiny wave off. Draw no attention to the lady about to hurl. I walked off my cramps, queasiness and disgrace for a minute and then joined them. “You were only 5 minutes behind us,” they clamored with encouragement and back pats. “You showed up and you finished! That’s what matters. Let’s eat!”
Thanks, I guess. And then as the fog of exertion lifted, I realized no one really cared how I did but me. My pals invited me back for next time. “Someone has to make us look good, right?” They lovingly ribbed. I glanced once more at the finish line to see a few others trudge in including Pinky jogging gracefully, holding hands with her mom and laughing. Sweet.
The moral… My humiliation was purely mine. And in my humiliation I ran faster, and better yet, harder, than I have in years. It’s part of the game of positive peer pressure. The social aspect of being active together forces you to grow. The only thing I lost was the time to enjoy the trail, to soak it up, rather than wasting energy on being hateful and scared. As bad as I felt during, I’m on top of the moon today. I want to be back on that trail and do better next time, if only in attitude.
And so it begins. The story of how people get addicted to the spirit of friendly competition.
Bring it, Pinky.
Oh and…
How do you run a 5K for the first time? Any way you want. Just do it, but do it with friends.