Before dawn we begin our race. There are thousands surrounding me, most over the age of 30. No one is in a sour mood. My corral's ribbon is broken, I cross the starting line, and we're off. I quickly lose Katie and Sarah, but I decide to continue nevertheless. The dark aura in the Gotham City of downtown Atlanta is lit up by the exhilirated runners, and the fans cheering on the side of the street. Only on such a day would the families dare to hang out next to the alleyways of crime-ridden downtown. The regular loiterers also take part in the spectating. My shins are sore.
I pass couple by couple, middle-ridden downtown, middle-aged man by middle-aged woman. Am I going too fast? I don't feel like it.
Mile two arrives. I've only gone two miles? And thus, I pass the first Gatorade station. And only then do I realize the bliss of a swig of the energy drink. I grab a cup from a volunteer as I run past, my hand bumping along with every stride I take, the gatorade swishing over the rim as I bring it to my parched lips. About half of the liquid makes it in. I throw aside the cup dramatically, among the hundreds of other paper cups on the street, as I push forward.
The first four miles were probably the slowest. Gotham City before dawn gets old real fast. Downtown soon evolves to neighborhoods, however, and night becomes day. I now look forward to every Gatorade station. My shins have lost feeling. So have the blisters on the insides of my feet. We pass an MLK monument, a Publix, and the Carter Center.
At the Publix, the spectators were hilarious. There were naked cowboys, men with lettuce on their heads, all running with us and yelling for a little while.
Families on balconies and on their front porches reclined, smiled, and waved, petting their dogs or attending to their toddlers, holding up signs or sipping on a beer.
A runner in his 20's pushes his friend jokingly aside, which in turn causes his friend to face plant into a street sign, collapsing to the ground. The other runners respond in grimaces and in "Ooh"'s and "Ah"'s. The guy gets up and begins to chase after his friend with an angry "Hey man, come here!", but then halts after a few steps and laughs. Everyone, relieved that the young man was only kidding, laughs along with him. A bit of entertainment during the fifth mile.
There is a huge hill as we approach the prettier parts of Atlanta, upon which I pass many middle-aged women in teams, encouraging each other with comments like, "Gwenyth, I'm feelin' good" and "We got this, Sue". When passing good ol' Ponce de Leon, I spot my favorite Urban Outfitters store. Memories rush into my mind of past Atlanta shopping adventures, and this gives me enough of a delightful kick to push on.
I survive from Gatorade station to Gatorade station, now picking up a cup of Gatorade and a cup of water, both sloshing in rhythm with my strides in each hand.
The miles go by faster.
Now I'm on mile 12. One. More. Mile. I skip the last Gatorade station to focus on my speed, but the faster I go, the longer this mile seems to last. There is hill after hill. Before each one, the spectators dishonestly assure us, "It's all downhill after this one". Jerks.
The track does seem to level out, but the running area also becomes more narrow. At this point, I'm at a sprint. I pass person after person. It's crowded. I've developed a weaving technique to get past every one. I spot the finish line coming up. I sprint.
It's over? Wow.
I reluctantly halt my sprinting and transfer into walking. I'm in shock. I receive my epic aluminum blanket cape and I am dressed with my Publix medal. We are shuffled into a line, handed a plastic bag, and then encouraged to fill our bags with a half mile line of goodies handed to us by the volunteers. Bottles of chocolate milks, bananas, yogurts, trail mix, pretzels... it's all heaven. I've already chugged a bottle of water and a chocolate milk.
My shins are still numb. I am victorious.
No comments:
Post a Comment