Off to a Slow Start

Bringing Up the Rear in a 5K Is A Challenge to Mind and Body, but This Novice Is in for the Long Haul

As I approach the starting line for my first 5K, I scan the crowd for people who look less fit than I am -- the very overweight, or maybe people with obvious limps. But everyone looks pretty fit and I'm worried. All I want is not to finish last.

I've been taking a running class for three months. In that time I went from hardly being able to run for one minute to running for seven. With one-minute walking breaks, I'm able to do several intervals. I clock in at a steady four miles an hour.

The gun sounds. The adrenaline rush propels me for about 90 seconds. Plus, we're running downhill. But by Minute 3, my husband is too far in the distance for me to see. At Minute 4, a woman pushing a stroller passes me.

By Minute 5 I'm all alone. I follow the orange cones into the woods. The weather is perfect. Cool and clear. The sun is just starting its descent toward the treetops. I look at my watch. I've been running for 10 minutes, three minutes longer than I have ever done before. I keep going until I hit 12 minutes and then I take a walking break for exactly one minute.

When I start running again, the beginning of fatigue in my legs triggers a similar downturn in my attitude. I feel lonely. One of the benefits of an organized race is the camaraderie among the runners. There's no camaraderie for me because everyone else is far ahead.

It suddenly seems absurd, this running. I'm painfully slow, yet I keep running. What a strange thing to do.

I've always been an achiever. I had high grades at school and was first chair violin in the orchestra. I went to a very good college and got an enviable job upon graduating. I'm at least okay at most things I try. But not running. I am really, really bad at running.

At 16 minutes I decide that I hate running and after this race I'm never going to run again. If you're that bad at something there's no point in doing it. I took a pottery class once. My vases always ended up grossly misshapen. I stopped going to the class. If there's one thing I know, it's when I'm beat.

This race is embarrassing. When I finally finish, everyone will see that I'm last. They'll cheer, sure, but I know the difference between a cheer because someone did well and a pity cheer.

A couple sitting on a bench, official race support team members, cheers for me.

"I'm the last one," I apologize. I feel bad that they've been waiting on me.

"No, you're not," the woman says. I turn to look and she's right! There's another runner behind me doing something between a jog and a walk. She looks stiff.