Run Away, Run Away

Yesterday I ran 9.3 miles for no good reason.  I ran the Gate River Run, a HUGE race here in Jacksonville that they have once a year, that goes from downtown Everbank field (where the Jaguars play) and through the old beautiful neighborhoods of San Marco and Atlantic Boulevard and back around to downtown over the Hart Bridge, which they call the Green Monster.  It is aptly named because it is a monster of pain and suffering.  But I went into the run knowing that I was going to walk most of the race, because I have this weird foot thing going on right now and I knew I’d have only about 3 miles of actual running before I started to experience pain.  I don’t like pain.  A great deal of my life is spent avoiding pain.

So I went for a really long walk, along with 20,000 of my closest friends.  If you’ve never done this race before, let me tell you it is a MASS of HUMANITY.  There are so many people, you are never alone.  It does not matter who passes you or whom you pass, there are always about 400 people right next to you, and there are some interesting characters in this run.  I saw ladies in tutus, firemen, a man with a big fork (yes I did), Superman, children, people my age, people older than me.  Every race and color and age imaginable.  There are so many people you have to pay attention to where you’re putting your feet: you can’t just decide you’re going left.  You could get run over.

So I’m running my little race, finding my little groove, doing my own thing.  There are people passing me everywhere.  I know I’m not “keeping up;” I don’t feel bad about it.  Let me tell you people, everybody runs their own race, and you are not in competition with anybody but yourself.  Nobody cares what you eat or how much you eat or whether you exercise or whether you spent the better part of the morning with your arm elbow-deep in a bag of Almond M&Ms (oh wait, is that just me?).  Nobody cares if you’re faster or slower or fatter or thinner or smarter than the next person.  If YOU are not happy with what you are, change it.   These people passing me are running their own race and I’m running mine and I’m just kinda rollin’ on through, not really feeling too pathetic about my inability to run like Meb, just kinda moving with the ebb and flow of the people around me.   Until I get passed up by the streaker (not what you think; it’s somebody who’s been doing the race every year since its inception, which is like 30 years), who’s 85 and could probably kick my butt.   And then I get passed up by the lady rolling her own oxygen tank.  Twice.  I’m not kidding.  I started to feel a little bit pathetic after that.

As I’m running, I’m thinking about all the different running styles there are.  It’s fascinating, that God made us all so unique, yet He loves us all the same.  Keep in mind that I’m in with the Real People, not the Crazy People who are way up front and who are trying to beat a personal record [PR].  Or, God forbid, actually attempting to WIN this race, and as such, have passed the finish line like an hour ago and are currently massaging their rock-hard muscles with foam rollers while they snarf bananas and tell the local news, “As I was coming up on the 8 and a half mile mark I just dug into the depths of my very innermost being, bringing forth this second wind of Strength and Courage, and as a Phoenix rises from the ashes, with unbridled abandon I BURST forth over the finish line in a fiery spectacle of speed, resplendent in my sponsored tight shortie shorts, every pore glistening with liquid awesome.”  I’m nowhere near those people.   I’m back with the Real People.  

You’ve got:

The Manicurist:  these are the ladies who run with their elbows way up high, fingers splayed, as though they’re drying their nails.   They run like they’re late for a salon appointment, and they usually have the pretty compression socks and the coordinated running outfit and the headband.  They’re adorable and have it all together.  They bring fashion to the run.  Me?  I have no fashion.  I was born fashionless.  I have three pairs of black pants that are exactly the same, and black matches everything.   I have a hat that I stole from Dallas to keep my hair out of my face.    I wear it every run, and when it starts to smell like a big hairy trucker I throw it in the wash and switch to another hat.  That I stole from Dallas.

The Pugilist:  These are the ones that have their hands in a fist and they’re taking on the world, pumping their arms, gonna ROCK you, we BUILT this city, HOO RAH.  Doesn’t matter if they’re fat or thin or fast or slow, they’ve got this aura about them like, “I’m gonna kick this race in the TEETH!”  They run like they’re Navy Seals, I’m here to kick booty and I’m takin’ names.  That was me last year.  I got something to prove and I’m gonna prove it and GET OUT OF MY WAY.  I let those folks pass me.  They’re on a mission; I’m not.  I’m just out for a really long walk.

The Tea Party:  These are the girls for whom this is a social event and they are running ever so slowly, nine abreast, and they have no idea that there’s an actual RACE going on here.  What?  We came to chat about our boyfriends, we’re not running a race.  What race?  OMG, those people have beer!  In order to get around them, you’re going to have to go way off into the ditch or you’re going to have to Red Rover them from behind and break their Solidarity ChatFest by breaking through the middle.  Either way you might learn something about a new sexual position as you go by.

The Bouncer:  The people who are running on their tip-toes, wrists bent down, hands in front, bee-bopping along like they’ve not got a care in the world and this is a beautiful day for a run and all is well with my soul.  Puppies and sunshine and rainbows come flying out of their booties.  These people love to run; they run for the sheer joy of it.  The wind in their hair; the endorphins send them to new pinnacles of happiness and fulfillment.  They are the My Little Ponies of running.  Whatever.  They’re happy.  Who am I to tell them they just stepped on a squashed orange slice, likely teeming with pesticides, ground into the pavement by thousands of rubber soles probably put together by children laboring in third world countries?   Yeah.  Them.  They LIKE running.

Then there are the Shufflers.  That’s what I was yesterday.  The what-the-heck-was-I-thinking-when-I-signed-up-for-this runner.  We are the ones with our heads down, plodding along, alternately watching the pavement and the spectators and the girl in front of us and wondering how did she get her hair to do THAT today?  We’re just kinda makin’ it all happen, we walk for a while, then we run, then we walk, we wonder what that little twinge meant, we feel our toes hit the top of our shoes and wonder if we shouldn’t ought to have worn the OTHER socks today because there’s some unpleasant friction going on down there.  That’s me.

So I’m shuffling along and I’m wondering what the heck am I doing out here.  I’m running and I don’t even know why.  Now at one point there WAS a reason.  Last year I ran the Donna half marathon and the Gate 15K because that was kind of the culmination of a long year of finding the skinny girl inside the pudgy one.  The one who was lovingly enveloped in swathes of chocolate cake and donuts, for whom running a half marathon a year before THAT would have been akin to creating matter out of thin air.  Or curing cancer.  Or getting your boobs to be EXACTLY EQUAL in size, choose your analogy.  Anyhow, last year, THAT girl had something to prove.  This year, THIS girl thinks her time could have been better spent at home sleeping in ‘cause it’s SATURDAY.

But I’m wondering about all the other people who are out here on a beautiful Saturday morning, the ones who aren’t here for the social aspect or the novelty or because this is just what they do every year.   Because for them, maybe this year is THEIR year to prove something.  Maybe they’ve just found the skinny girl inside the pudge, or left an ugly relationship, or started a new career, or FINALLY took the vacation they’d been talking about, or beat cancer, or just lost somebody, or just found somebody.   

Whatever it is, there had to have been some pain, some sacrifice, some tough soul-searching moments to get here, and I’m PROUD of all you people about to yak up your breakfast climbing up this stupid bridge with me.  You go, you forty-year-old lady with pigtails and a tiara and a tutu.  You tear it up, you guy drenched in your own sweat even though it’s only like 68 degrees out here.  Lady with the oxygen, I totally hope you pass me again.  Guy with the picture of your daughter on your shirt, I bet she’s cheering you on.  Whatever you people are going through, whether it’s a mountain or a valley, I’m proud of you for getting out here and trying.  Because that’s all any of us are doing, trying to be the best we can be, for whatever reason that is. 

My reason? I’m trying to be the best I can be because I believe that’s what God has called me to do.  To fulfill the potential He had in mind for me when he made me.  Not to be better than you, because you’re you.   The best ME.  There’s no competition there, except what I make in myself.  The only finish line, the only purpose I need to concentrate on at any given moment, is Is what I’m doing glorifying God?  Dallas says when I set my mind to something I’m relentless.  And I kinda am.  I don’t have much of a gray area for things; with me I’m either going to do it all the way or I’m not going to even attempt it.  It’s not a great way to be; it has its upsides and downsides so it’s not like I’m recommending you adopt that as your own personal motto, LET THERE BE NO GRAY!, I’m just saying I tend to be a bit of a light switch about some things. But it does help me when I set my mind to something that I firmly believe is the correct path, and I firmly believe that God wants us to glorify Him in all that we do, no matter what it is.  If it’s raising kids, or working where you work, or doing the five BAZILLIONTH load of laundry, or helping someone who needs a hand up, or telling yourself I will not let my life be held hostage by a Twinkie.  Whatever. 

So I’m going to try that from now on.  That’s my thing.  Glorify God through whatever I do, doing the best I can every day with the resources He’s blessed me with, praising Him for those blessings, and using those resources wisely, so at the end of my race I can show that God did all those things through me, not me doing them myself.  ‘Cause He’s pretty cool like that.

Update:  here's a link to what the Gate River Run looked like this year: Gate River Run 2014