Just about the only time I am ready and willing to broadcast my age is when participating in a road race.  In that case, the older the better. Since I came late to running, I can count on my compatriots who were runners in high school and college to be dropping like flies from bad knees and hips. Not to mention Peloton addiction, plantar fasciitis and bunions. Is that charitable? Well no. But I tell you it is dog eat dog at these local road races.

There are a lot of data points to be digested. I am sure I am not the only one who records the finish time and pace for each race. But with running watches and online race posting, it is not too hard to get your stats from a couple of years ago as well. And some people (ok, me) tend to get obsessive, doing a deep dive into the data of past races, tracking the competition who are moving up into a new age category – i.e., the one I will be running in. But who is to say that person will be running this race again?  And who is to know there is not some newly minted 60-year-old whippersnapper with pristine knees and a running coach who will destroy my dreams of placing in my age group?

I am always nervous on race day, which is ridiculous, I know.  Really, what are the stakes?  Who will ridicule me if I don’t finish? Only me. I get to the race early, take advantage of the facilities and pin on my bib. I am casually sizing up the competition, i.e., women who look, well, old. I suspect my age group is going to get more competitive by the year. Not just from the influx of younger women but from a generation of women who were more likely to start and keep running throughout their adult lives. Case in point: I have a very good friend who is much younger and much faster than I am, or ever was, to be honest. She is a phenomenal runner. Yet in her under 50 age group she has little hope of placing. And it’s the same for the men.

It is amusing pre-race to check out the differently observed rituals. The thirty-something men who feel they must run most of the race before the race to warm up.  The men in that same age group who run with tots in strollers and make incredible time. The older men who have weird stretching rituals. Okay, I do leg swings before a race which I am sure is a source of amusement to some observers, especially since I use my husband as a solid fixture upon which to steady myself as I do them.

This particular race, my first one since the pandemic, is one I have run once before 6 years ago.  It is not my favorite race because it is out on the street and they do not close the roads. There is a police presence, especially at traffic lights, because everyone knows the runners will just run right through them, red or not. The other issue is that it is both a 5K and 5 mile race. We all begin together and then the 5-milers break off to run the extra distance. Which direction we are supposed to go at the cut-off is not clear to me and I am not sure that I am continuing on the 5 mile race. I call out to a police officer and continue in the direction she indicates. Still there’s that niggling doubt. I evaluate the other runners to see if I can tell which race they are in – 5K because they are sprinters or 5K because they are new to racing?  5 milers would be more experienced runners but not necessarily better ones. I run up to a male not in my age group to confirm that this is the 5 mile race. He says yes and I believe him. He has nothing to lose. Not that I’m suspicious. 

I had noticed early on a woman who looked to be in my age group, or maybe older – she was kind of weathered.  But she moved really easily, her incredibly long legs galloping at about half my stride. Think of a Shih Tzu trying to keep up with a Great Dane. I kept my eye on her and occasionally passed her but as the race went on, I grew weary. It was the time for the existential introspection that for me is part of every race. Why was I doing this race, I asked myself, when I didn’t enjoy it?  Really it seemed to be taking forever. I even thought of stopping for a rest (never a good idea) when my “fight song,” the eponymous “Come On Eileen” started playing from my headphones.  (I always curate a race playlist and this song is always on it, but not in any particular order since I prefer to shuffle the songs.)  Interpreting this as a sign from higher powers that I must continue, I keep on running and soon turn a corner where volunteers call out “You are almost there,” God bless them. And then my husband, stationed as usual near the finish line to take photos – God bless him, calls out – “You’ve got it!” I could make out the balloon-bracketed finish line with the all-important chip reader but I was really exhausted and almost missed stepping over it. I did not have the energy left to sprint across the line, as many do. In fact I was rather disoriented for a minute or two, which is not unusual.

Now the wait was on. I thought my time was pretty good but could not actually remember what I had done 6 years before. When they were getting ready to announce the winners, the runners who think they have a chance start to gather close. It was then I saw her, the tall women who was probably my competition. I had not noticed her at the finish line. Was that a good or bad sign?  Apparently bad because I saw her boldly go up to the sponsor table and ask a question. They showed her a printout, And she broke into smiles. Big, satisfied smiles and maybe a giggle or two. Good grief. 

Still I waited. I had come this far after all. And I was rewarded. Yes, my nemesis had won first in our age group but I had won second and was less than 19 seconds slower. And, not to be petty, but I was two years older. So there.  

Shortly afterward, I found a lot had changed since my last pre-pandemic race. If I had bothered to look at my phone, I would have seen all my stats (including place in my age/gender group, as well as photos and videos of me crossing the finish line, never a pretty sight) sent minutes after I completed the race. Will I still wait around after my next race for the announcement of winners?  Probably. For the same reason I sought out and congratulated my nemesis.  Her name is Elizabeth by the way. And she was very gracious.  #olderrunners #runforyourlife #racedaze #thisiswhywedoit #firstpostpandemicrace #localroadrace #RyeDerby