TheBanyanTree: The Race

[pat.martin]

The Race
by Pat Martin


            "Pass me the band aids," Andrew said as he pulled on his racing
shorts.  He'd lost twenty-five pounds from his marathon training, and he
looked gaunt and unhealthy.

We were in Spokane, Washington for the Bloomsday run, a mere twelve
kilometers.  Andrew figured he would finish it in just over an hour.  I didn
't share his enthusiasm for running or understand his desire to 'beat his
own time' whenever he ran.  Still, for the first time I allowed him to
convince me to participate.

"There will be walkers and runners," he told me.  "Just do it at your own
speed."

My legs were strong from regular lunch hour walks but I couldn't jog a block
before my calves started to burn.  I planned to walk.

"You won't believe how many people will be there, " Andrew said as he
carefully applied bandages and moleskin to the tender areas of his feet.  He
looked up at me, eyes gleaming.  "Last year there were over 50,000."

"I can't imagine it," I said.  "I've never been involved in anything like
this."

When Andrew finished with his feet, he deftly taped over his nipples.

"That looks so weird," I said as I eyed the two band aids on his chest and
the stray hairs sprouting out from under them.

"Yeah, but it works."

I recalled the first time I saw Andrew with band aids covering his nipples.
He was sitting in the bathtub after a run.  My chin dropped.  I gasped and
pointed.  "What are those band aids for?"  He told me that runners sometimes
ended up with chafed or bleeding nipples from the friction of their shirt
when they ran long distances.

 "Remember that woman in the Victoria Marathon you ran next to?"

Andrew grinned as he laced up his running shoes.  His eyes twinkled.  "You
mean the one who told me her nipples were sore?"

"Yes."  I rolled my eyes.  "Imagine telling that to a complete stranger."

An hour later we joined an exodus of racers exiting a city bus near the
beginning of the race.  Like most people, I was wearing only a tank top,
shorts and runners when I stepped outside into an overcast spring day and
drizzle.

"It's cold," I muttered, unimpressed, and rubbed my arms and legs briskly to
warm them.

Andrew stretched one leg and then the other.  He was in his element.  I didn
't mind his contortions here among the other racers but when he stretched in
shopping malls, restaurants, or busy downtown streets as he sometimes did,
he annoyed me.  Then, I figured his obsession with running had gone too far.

"I won't see you until the end of the race," he reminded me.  "When I signed
you up I had to estimate how long it would take you to finish.  There are
several starting points depending on your time."  He pointed.  "You start at
the end of the block with the lilac group."  He swiveled.  "I'm two blocks
that way with the orange group.  See you later."  He disappeared into the
milling throng.

Everywhere I looked people paced, stretched or huddled together.  Their
energy bolstered my own enthusiasm.  As I arrived at my starting position, I
found myself eager for the race to start, if only to warm up.  Near me, I
noticed an abundance of overweight people, assisted wheelchairs, and
families with youngsters.  I wondered how long Andrew thought it would take
me to finish.  I wasn't athletic but I was relatively fit.  Why was I with
the slowest group?

When the starting horn blasted and the crowd surged forward, the excitement
of the race propelled me to break into a run to match the stride of a man
beside me.  As I kept pace with him, I whizzed past wheelchairs and dozens
of moms and dads with strollers and wagons.  I flew by scores of parents
hand-in-hand with young children.

Soon my companion and I reached a solid wall of joggers packed together so
tightly that I had to strategize to pass them.  I lost him as I wove in and
out and around and through. A temporary madness drove me forward. I passed
hundreds, then thousands-yes thousands-of other competitors.  Overtaking
them exhilarated me.

Unwilling to slow, I gasped for air.  My muscles screamed but I ignored
them.  Finally, I could take no more.  I broke stride and began to walk
quickly.  As soon as I caught my breath, I began to run again.  Although it
made no sense, making the best time possible became paramount.

Water was available along the route.  Without stopping, I grabbed a glass
and downed it.  Like everyone else, I dropped my cup on the spot and kept
moving.  Someone else would have to attend to the mess of crushed paper cups
underfoot.

When I reached a long, winding hill, runners packed the incline in front of
me as far as I could see.  Behind me: the same.  From the sky, I imagined we
looked like a single, miles-long multi-colored snake. I had never seen so
many people packed into one area at one time.

When I reached the finish line, the crowd applauded. They cheered for all
finishers but I beamed with pride as if I was 'the' winner.  I don't recall
my time; it doesn't matter, I had fun.  At last, I had an inkling of what
thrilled Andrew about running.  It was all about doing one's best.

That I enjoyed participating in Bloomsday surprised me.  That I ran instead
of walked intrigued me.  I discovered I harbored a competitive spirit.

As I lined up to claim my finisher's tee shirt, I decided I might compete in
a similar event again.  One thing was certain, though: I would never become
so serious about running that I would openly discuss the condition of my
nipples with a total stranger.