I fumble with the safety pins as I fasten my race bib to my yellow singlet. I feel my stomach twist and flutter inside while I wait for Cindy to arrive. She is the reason I am doing this 8K race. It will be her longest race since her stroke 7 years ago — although we originally signed up for the half marathon distance. It seems silly for me to be nervous about a 5 mile run, especially given my only goal is to finish without getting injured.
We line up well behind the 12 minute per mile marker (the last posted pace in the start corral) and wait for our turn to go. The deejay plays familiar upbeat music, while the announcer talks over it. I take it all in, ready to contribute my vocal stylings to the music, but the song changes without ever getting to the lyrics — one song blending into the next. Meanwhile, my heart tries to keep up with the beat of the music.
We are the 4th, and last wave, to head out. As I beginning my slow and steady run, I leave the buzz of nervousness at the starting line. On the other side of the road, I spot the lead runner of the half marathon barreling toward the finish line behind the domestique (cyclist who rides in front of the race leader). “Woo-hoo!” I yell. I am surprised that the rest of the pack keeps ignoring the runners on the other side of the road as they pass us. The spectators are sparse and none of them are cheering. I find it odd.
All around me, there is a sea of runners who wear their race shirts on the run. Maybe they are all rookies, I think. Hoping to spur some excitement, I continue to cheer, as I run in the opposite direction. “Nice job,” “Looking good,” “Keep it up,” I yell. I wonder if those around me are annoyed with my energetic bursts. I begin noticing that the more I cheer and run, the harder I work to breathe, so I space out my cheers a bit.
Then I see Cindy. “Julie!” she yells. “Go Cindy!” I yell back as I run past in the opposite direction. It’s the first of several switchbacks along the course. Further on, there is a young boy looking for willing runners to spray with his squirt gun. I cut across the road to give him a target. “Thank you,” I say. He smiles wide, as his dad tells me thank you in return. After the 3 mile mark, a young girl stands with her arm outstretched to the runners. I watch as the runners run past her little hand as if she’s invisible. “High Fives, over here!” I yell. I run over and touch my hand to hers. “Thank you for being out here to cheer for us,” I tell her. Further on, a little boy walks beside his father. “How did you get in front of me?” I exclaim. “Those little legs must be so powerfully fast,” I gush. He starts running again. “Thank you,” his dad tells me.
The road rolls downward as we go under an overpass. It’s short and sweet. “Let’s take advantage of this hill,” I say out loud to no one in particular. I glide down the hill, letting my legs quicken underneath me. I pump my arms as the road levels out and quickly goes up. I weave around the walkers as I go.
Further on, a woman rubs the side of her leg and hip, then slowly starts to run again. “Way to go,” tell her. “My legs are hurting,” she replies. I look at my watch. “We have less than a half-mile left,” I say. “Really? So, we should pick up the pace?” she asks. “I am going to wait until we make the final turn towards the finish line.” “Isn’t the finish where we started?” she asks. “Not quite. We actually finish in front of the stores.” She thanks me and I watch her run just ahead of me. Minutes later, we both pick up the pace as we head towards the finish line. On either side of the road, spectators stand silently shoulder to shoulder. “Where are your cheers?!” I yell motioning my arms toward the sky like I envision an orchestra conductor might do. The crowd responds. “Come on, CHEER!” I say. More cheers. I cross the finish line, out of breath from the burst in speed coupled trying to get he crowd to cheer. I hope that they will have a few cheers for Cindy as she finishes as well.