Turkey Trot of Life

I used to run in the morning about five days a week.

I loved feeling the fresh air in my lungs and watching the stars twinkle.

I would choose my route according to the wind, facing it for the first half and feeling it at my back for the last push.

I never ran very fast, but that deep-breathing, sweaty, muscle-throbbing feeling of finishing never let me down.

I was the tortoise, never in front, but never quitting, just slow and steady.

Iran in the dark so I never knew what was out ahead of me.

I couldn’t see the finish line.

I just knew I needed to take the next step.

Face the hard part first while I was fresh and strong.

Watch for badger holes.

Avoid the rocks that might trip me.

Some mornings, I limped home with bloody knees or a twisted ankle.

My son talked me into running my first 5K.

He was fit and fast.

I was panic-stricken.

And not good at reading arrows painted on the pavement.

I got lost. I knew this because I passed the same house three times.

I just kept trotting along, looking for painted arrows. Or other runners.

When I finally found the finish line, they called my name.

I won!

I suspect I was the only woman in my age group.

For the past four years, instead of running in the morning, I send emails, predict budgets, make to-do lists – all things that can be done before dawn to prepare for daylight outside.

I accomplish my tasks little by little, like a tortoise.

Slow and steady.

Because I am not fast.

Jobs pile up.

Sometimes, I choose the hard jobs first, sometimes, I sprint through the easy jobs.

Sometimes, I plan, sometimes, I just go for it.

I watch for holes and avoid rocks that stick up, ready to trip me.

Sometimes, life gives me bloody knees, but I know that if I stop, I might not get started again.

My daughter, Abby, talked me into running Conrad’s Turkey Trot 5K.

She is fit and fast.

I tried to prepare, but shin splints attacked my legs.

The only way I know to heal shin splints is rest. Practice ran out the door without me.

As the Turkey Trot grew closer, I grew more worried.

I’m a bit competitive.

I suspected I might sacrifice my ability to walk tomorrow for beating the person in front of me today.

I told myself I would be satisfied to just trot the entire course, not stop to rest.

If I could just run 3 miles without stopping, I would retain my self-respect.

I took a deep breath at the starting line.

Others were walking the race.

They looked relaxed, as if they were enjoying themselves.

What a novel concept for a race.

I couldn’t understand it.

The race started.

I watched Abby effortlessly take the lead, then disappear ahead of the crowd.

I kept taking the next step.

One person passed me, then a couple more.

I bit my lip and watched for rocks.

My muscles ached. I knew if I stopped, I might not start again.

Then I relaxed into a mindless rhythm. I noticed the neighborhood, admired trucks and trailers parked on the street, felt the wind at my back and watched the trees sway.

The run became a series of small tasks, one block at a time.

I sprinted the last 10 yards.

Then I reveled in that deep-breathing, sweaty, muscle-throbbing feeling of finishing.

The next day, I could even walk.

So Abby and I signed up for the Burn the Bird 5K on Thanksgiving morning.

I plan to take the next step and watch for rocks, just like in life.