First Race

This was the first time for me, I was easily half an hour early but I wanted to be sure and find a suitable place to park. I had no idea how this was going to end so there was at least a little comfort in knowing that my car was safely tucked away on a side street. I emptied everything that might have been in my pockets except a lone car key and the fifteen dollars I’d need for the entry fee and slowly wandered the couple of blocks to the registration tables, paid, and picked up the square of reinforced paper with whichever number happened to be printed on it. There was a box of safety pins at the corner of the table. I helped myself to four.
The day was chilly. It had rained earlier so the streets were wet and slick. I pinned the paper to my shirt and stayed in motion, walking back and forth across the yet to be closed street, keeping my eyes open for anyone I might know. After all, there were two or three thousand people here wearing the same numbered papers that I was. I was certain I’d see at least one familiar face, and did eventually see one, I didn’t know her name but we’d seen each other on the treadmills occasionally. We said hello and introduced ourselves. It was her first as well. We ran out of idle chatter fairly quickly and then went our separate ways.
I have no idea why I was so nervous. It was only a two mile run; I’d done it dozens of times, always alone, always indoors. Today the crowd surrounding me felt massive.
The starting gun was finally fired. As I moved along with the constantly thinning crowd I glanced along the sidewalks from time to time, listening to people cheering for someone in front of, or behind, or next to me. My confidence grew as I negotiated the short, mostly flat course, passing some and being passed by others. I was happy to be average, somewhere in the middle of the pack, finishing far from first, but nowhere near last.
I found the cigar smokers along the way to be offensive and incredibly inconsiderate, nearly gagging on the stench as I passed. They didn’t seem to understand that breathing is something of a necessity while running.
The last quarter mile or so was a steep decline, nearly pulling me along to the end where the official race clock was broken and read nothing. It didn’t matter, I came here with the purpose of finishing, not to compete.
Volunteers is silly green hats were handing out plastic medals to anyone who finished. I declined. It was enough for me to grab a bottle of water and walk the two miles back to my car, stopping briefly to watch my son as he passed by in the school’s marching band. I’d left before them in order to change and register. I had done what I’d set out to do and was halfway home before any of the other festivities began, stopping into the club to change back into my regular clothes and run a few other errands on the way home. When I arrived they were all at the counter having lunch. There was silence; again I was shunned, denied another meal as if I had just perpetrated some heinous criminal act.