I ran my first 10k in 2002, at the age of 42. It was the Exira Road Run, and I won a ridiculously huge plastic trophy for finishing as the fastest 40+ runner.
Today, 20 years later, I ran the same race for probably my 18th time. I know I skipped in 2005 because at age 45, I'd just had a breast biopsy that had bled profusely three days before the race. The doctor told me to skip the run. On July 6, I was told I had invasive breast cancer.
So yeah, I missed that year. I probably missed another race or two since then, but the reasons are mundane and therefore haven't lodged in my memory.
The point is, I run this race every year to prove to myself I can--what? do it?
Last year I ran well.
This year, I knew I could not match my 2021 time. So instead, I decided to run not for time, but in celebration of a body that for the most part still does what I ask it to do: it thinks (slowly); it moves (with creaks and groans); it hangs in there. I can't complain. This body has been a good life companion.
--------
Like most small-town road races, the Exira Road Run would not be possible if only elite runners participate. The towns could not support a race that brought in only the 10 best runners in the area. They NEED slow runners like me to keep the event profitable. For this reason, I will never apologize for running at a 13:00 pace (which I did one year); if I weren't here paying my $15 entry fee, those speedy cheetahs wouldn't get to run at all.
Thank me.
----------
Today's run started at 7:45 a.m. I had been in Iowa City all week for a class and had "rested my legs" (i.e. avoided training) for four days. Furthermore, I'd signed up for a very hilly race after running only flat trails for the past two months. I vowed to pace myself and listen to my body. The goal was to finish without injury.
At the one-mile mark, I glanced at my phone and realized I was almost two minutes/mile ahead of my usual pace. I'd just run the fastest mile of my summer--mostly because the other 13 runners had taken off like a pack of gazelles.
Just then a jaunty red-head (I'd guess age 10) came by on his bicycle.
"You're losing!" he shouted gleefully.
"No, I'm WINNING!" I shouted in gleeful response.
And I was. When an hour (+) later I accepted my gold medal as the first (and only) finisher in the 60+ age category, I wish the little redhead had been there to see me skip up to the awards table.
Be well.
Enough.
Allison
