To me, and to a couple thousand other runners who woke up early last Thursday morning, Thanksgiving just isn't Thanksgiving without the Turkey Trot. This particular race was a significant one for me; as my first race since my injury, I wanted it to be a good run. I also had been told by my parents and doctors to "take it easy."
My challenge, then, was to find the perfect balance. I didn't want to run more slowly than I wanted to, but I didn't want to push myself any harder than I needed to. The last thing I wanted was to re-injure myself in a race that was supposed to be no more than a fun run and a way to boost my metabolism before noshing on turkey and pumpkin pie later in the day.
The morning of the race, it was misty and damp. I vaguely remembered Dean at the dining hall telling me that the rain always made fractures hurt worse. I worried a little but brushed it aside as I pushed my way through the crowd of people lined up at the race number tables. I still had a half an hour before the race.
Perhaps the most unusual thing about this race - which I realized as I affixed four safety pins to the corners of my number, 1618 - was that I wasn't nervous. All throughout high school, I had run the same race - same course, same day, same time - and worried myself sick before it. It was always at the end of cross-country season, and instead of treating it as a welcome respite from the pressure of real races, I used it as a gauge: Was I still in condition? Would my times improve next season? This year, there was nothing to fear. My only competition was my own injury.
I got to the start early and stretched on the sidelines, greeting friends from past years of cross-country as I saw them. The start was broken into pace brackets: five-minute mile pace, six-minute, seven, eight, nine. I wasn't going to be ambitious; I lined up with the sevens.
When the gun went off, it felt more like I had lined up with a 15-minute mile pace. The sheer volume of people ahead of us was gradually accelerating, but instead of my usual sprint from the starting line, I had to settle for a jog.
About 100 meters out, I was still boxed in. I might have been recovering from an injury, but I wanted to run a little faster. I saw a girl in a homemade construction-paper turkey hat weaving among the competitors. I followed. Soon, my stride was relaxed and stretched out, and I was on my way.
Still, I wasn't anxious at all. At the one-mile point, instead of listening for my split time, I watched the little boys who eagerly brought cups of water to the passing runners. When I felt a little tired at the halfway point, I didn't tense up and worry that my end result would be poor. I just took a deep breath and kept running.
For the first time, I could look around at my fellow competitors and the scenery around me. I listened as a father encouraged his young daughter to keep going; we were almost there. I smiled as a group of boys wearing sailor hats ran past, their backs covered in handprints and blue paint. As I ran up the final hill, I looked out over the misty river to my left and saw how the sunlight filtered through the broken windows of the old mill by its shore.
In almost no time, I had hit the three-mile point; there was only one-tenth left to go. I didn't want to start my final sprint too early, so I stretched out my stride a little and watched for the finish. It was still an easy run, but old habits die hard, and even though I was getting tired, I had to have a final kick.
In almost no time, I was only 100 meters or so from the finish. Without thinking, I took off. I hadn't sprinted since my accident; my training runs around Grounds had been fast but I hadn't tried an all-out run in months. The finish approached faster, faster, and I was there. I didn't bother to look at the time. There was no pain. I had finished the race.
As I caught my breath and handed in my time chip, I realized the significance of what had happened. Three months and a day after my accident, I had run a 5k. I hadn't worried. For the first time, I had been there, in the race, in the moment. I hadn't fretted about my final time or worried about how tired I'd be when I hit the last hill. I had truly enjoyed a race for the first time since I could remember. It was, I thought in that moment, the best race I'd ever run.
Courtney's column runs biweekly Fridays. She can be reached at c.hartnett@cavalierdaily.com.
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