It all came flooding back when I started bouncing up and down at the starting line to warm up and stay loose.
The high school flashbacks. The butterflies. The wonder how I’d do over 3.1 miles after not running a road race in over 10 years.
But most of all, I was remembering the ongoing theory I’d had in the 28 years since my last cross country meet – that I should always be able to fall out of bed and run a 5K in under 30 minutes.
Fast forward to 2016 and there I was, barely awake for 30 minutes with only a cup of coffee and a few spoonfuls of yogurt in my belly, waiting for the starter’s pistol to go off.
And I was about to test my theory with my wife and kids in full view.
Gulp.
My nervous energy was channeled through those jittery jumps at the start and carried me through the first mile at the annual Turkey Trot in Tinley Park last week. The marker came up fast but I was encouraged after hearing “8 minutes, 28 seconds” barked out by the timekeepers at the water table. It meant that I was in business to fulfill my personal pledge.
That was about the same time a subtle side ache decided to kick in, probably from making yogurt my pre-race snack. It soon made me wonder if the sub-30 dream was going to be a reality.
The realistic goal of the run was to complete the distance, one I’d done in my youth over 100 times without stopping. Back then, for me, it was the first sign I graduated from being a novice to a varsity runner. I learned how to pace yourself, push myself and be tough.
On that Sunday morning at Vogt Woods, my only thought was to not stop. Slow down to a jog if I must, but do not stop and walk.
At the two-mile mark my time was somewhere in the 18-minute range. It was a good sign, a great sign. Then I realized that as a teenager, that was the time I’d be striding over the 5K finish line. Now, as a 44-year-old suburban dad with a growing cluster of gray hairs, I was still looking at another a mile and change.
A minute or two later I was walking. I gave myself a 30-second break.
The flashback was a reality check, but not the last. The next one came from a boy in basketball high-tops who couldn’t have been older than 12 years old. He plodded ahead of me during my break at a pretty good clip, like he was racing home for dessert.
Shouldn’t he be still sleeping I thought? Or watching cartoons?
I’d heard his approaching footsteps the last half-mile or so as his heavy-soled shoes hit the pavement each time with a Dr. Seuss-like thump. It made for an ominous sound. But when I realized the thunderous runner was someone who probably hadn’t reached puberty yet, my pace picked up immediately. Break over. Back to work.
The rest of the race is pretty much a blur, but I do remember making the last turn and having enough fuel in the tank to pass another runner as the chute came into focus. It was meaningless takeover, really, but an ego boost nonetheless and a probably subconscious nod to my coach who used to emphasize beating someone in the homestretch.
My time was 28:23 and my relief was substantial. I satisfied my theory, but not by much. About the time span of three commercials.
My kids, both still in grade school, were bummed I didn’t win any of the trophies that caught their eye earlier near the registration table. They were mesmerized how the statues shined in the early morning sun and I immediately got the feeling those golden spoils will motivate them to run in the future.
I was just content with the long-sleeved shirt I received for signing up, the post-race bagel and the satisfaction that I made it to the finish. That was the lesson I tried to remind them as we encouraged other runners who continued on the course. Trophies are nice, but more important is to finish and do your best I reminded them. I also nudged them to keep cheering until the final runners emerged and they enthusiastically joined in the applause without a fuss.
It was a comforting sign. If another 10 years go by before my next race, they’ll both be in high school and I’m going to need as much encouragement as I can get.
Steve Zimmerman is a copy editor/designer for the Chicago Tribune who moved to the south suburbs from Chicago’s northwest side in May.
