So, hey, Charleston! It was great! I conquered the Bridge Run, finishing the 10K race in 47:36 and averaging a pace of 7:40 per mile. That’s a minute faster than my previous 10K personal record, and a whole nine minutes faster than I ran the same race last year.
Also, I was the 1,734th person to cross the finish line. That sounds like something to thumb your nose at, I know, but it’s not when you consider that approximately 39,000 people ran or walked the race. That’s a lot of race participants to pack into one place, don’t you think?
There’s a lot I could tell you about the run. I could write about how I blew out the first three miles, including the bridge’s ascent, in just 23 minutes. Or I could tell you about the amazingly quick fourth mile I ran, and then the subsequent fifth mile during which I wished for death so I could at least exit from the course gracefully. That’s when I swore I’d never run again, that I’d give this whole, insane pursuit up entirely if the race could be over-already-right-now, please.
But mentioning those things alone wouldn’t be telling the whole story because, for me, the true grit of a runner’s tale can be found in her final mile. That’s when I dug as deep as I could go, that’s when I turned the corners from Meeting Street to John Street, from John to King Street, from King to Wentworth Street, as fast as I could, and that’s where I let the bottom fall out, on Wentworth, when I sprinted that final length to the finish line.
After I finished, after John found me and I ate an orange and a banana and drank a bottle of water, we visited with John’s younger brother Lewis at the Knight’s of Columbus, then bounced around the streets downtown visiting one shop then another, waiting for the race to end so we could cross the street and get back to our car. Two or three hours would pass from the time I’d crossed the finish line before the race officials and law enforcement officers would open the race course to traffic again.
As soon the barricades were gone and we were able to cross the street, John and I began to pick our way toward our car. As I turned my head to look for oncoming cars down King Street, I saw her. She was holding onto the arm of an old man and she was slowly, carefully walking down the street to make that next-to-last turn toward the finish line.
She limped as she walked, as if she had Cerebral Palsy or had suffered a stroke. Two police officers road their motorcycles in front of her, their headlights on, indicating that she would be the last race participant to cross the finish line. We people strewn across the sides of the street paused as she neared. Everyone stopped talking, stopped hollering, and all you could hear was the hum of the cruisers’ engines, the sound of the street cleaner swooshing water across the pavement a block away.
Someone started to clap. I put down the things I was carrying in my hands so I could clap, too. John did the same. I think I was the first person to yell out to her, the last race participant, and as soon as I did other people began to whistle and cheer, too. We kept it up until she passed us, turning that next-to-last corner toward the finish line.
After she passed I bent over to pick up the things I’d laid down in front of me. People began to walk again, to talk again, and John and I turned away from King Street to make our way home. That’s when I felt like crying and I told John as much.
As soon as I’d found John after I finished running I had to hold onto his arm until my legs steadied themselves again. I’d given my best effort, and this woman on another man’s arm was, too. What I’d accomplished that morning was important to me, but what this woman was doing felt bigger. Her efforts belonged to her, but they seemed universal, too. It’s trite to say so, I know, but I’m thankful her triumph gave me that perspective this past Saturday morning in Charleston. I really am.