Thanksgiving Run

It seemed like a good idea last year.

I promised my daughter, Abby, that I would run the 10-kilometer version of a community race the next Thanksgiving.

After all, I had just finished the 5k version without walking, tripping or practicing.

I even managed to pass another runner.

I might have been momentarily high on endorphins.

I had an entire year to build a little endurance and master a distance I had never, ever run in my entire life.

A year is a long time.

Until it isn’t.

By September, my promise niggled at my mind.

I trotted the half mile from my house to the mailbox, gasping for breath over creaking joints.

Oh dear.

Maybe Abby would let me off the hook, being old and out of shape and attempting to avoid death.

No chance. Abby views a lack of discipline as a character flaw and breaking a promise is unforgiveable.

So periodically, I trotted around the ranch, always hoping I was out of sight to the rest of the world.

By early November, we signed up for an evening 5k run to raise money for the local food bank.

They handed out glow sticks so we could see in the dark. I was happy to note the many participants, but realized only three of us actually planned to run. The others strolled and chatted, happy to contribute without feeling even a spark of competitiveness.

Abby took an early lead. The second runner kept her in his sights. My competitive hopes soon became a survival strategy. If I could at least keep him in sight, I would not get lost in the dark.

I got lost in the dark.

When I finally crossed the finish line, both runners offered high-fives. I remembered the exhilaration of racing.

On Thanksgiving morning, Abby and I drove 90 minutes to the Great Falls Burn the Bird starting line.

Not wanting to be trampled at the starting gate, I stood toward the back of the crowd and stuck in my earphones. My playlist varied the tempo instead of pounding a quick beat that I should match for 6.2 miles, but I liked the songs.

In less than a quarter of a mile, I found myself with only one woman between me and last place.

I congratulated myself.

If I could beat even one person, I would be happy.

She passed me on a corner.

I told my legs to catch her.

They mutinied.

I trotted along, admiring homes and music, attempting to distract my mind from my pounding feet, until I realized I was gaining on a person ahead of me.

Stealth became my strategy.

If I caught her by surprise, maybe I could overtake her for a few moments.

I told myself this would be enough.

To my surprise, she didn’t even attempt to repass me.

I set my sights on a chatty couple up ahead.

The trail was narrow so I zipped between them, stretching my stride temporarily.

My legs screamed.

I was glad for a slower-tempo song in my ears.

Next up, a walker.

I didn’t look back for the next two miles.

With a quarter of a mile to go, I thought about sprinting to the finish.

My legs laughed at me.

Then Walker Man slipped past me.

Where did he come from?

With 100 yards to go, I turned on the afterburners, such as they were.

I passed Walker Man at the finish line. We both laughed out loud.

Then I collapsed into Abby’s hug.

Walker Man is 23 years younger than I -- not that I checked.

Okay, I checked.

Abby finished 44th and I finished 87th of 108 runners.

Maybe I’ll run even faster next year.