Why Run?

Other than listening to folks describe their medical procedures one of the least favorite topics is the athletic endeavor.  That said, when over seventy-years-old, I am running – rather, jogging—along East Quilcene Bay and up the cedar lined hills, the kilometers demand an examination of why I am doing this and why I feel so good.

Last Sunday, we awoke to steady rain, and would have crawled back under the quilt, but we had volunteered to man the water station at the 5-mile mark of the annual Quilcene Half-Marathon Oyster Run.  By the time we dressed, the skies began to clear, so I asked my husband to man the water station alone, and I went to the starting line at the Linger Longer Stage where I signed up to run the 10k race. I don’t think I have run more than 6 miles in 2-mile increments, since 2016, when I  ran the half marathon (another last minute decision) . This Sunday, I turn on I-Tunes on my phone at the start of the 10K.  It will take only two complete replays of Pink Martini’s “Get Happy” album to keep me company until the finish line.

The scenery alone will keep me running.  Morning shadows lengthen, stretching across the dampened road so the tree shadows appear even longer than their height, and I am running from one to the other.  After a kilometer up Center Road, the course dips down past a farm, its green barn open like a mouth to exhale its hay-fresh breath. Sunflowers shine from the garden, September heavy with produce. Behind the garden, ochre grasses cover the tidal flat intersected by Donovan Creek.  The salmon will soon work their way up that creek, and though I can’t see them from the road, their perseverance energizes me.  After the farm, McGInnis Road ends at East Quilcene Road, that hugs the bay like a necklace around wavelets of white, because the wind that brought that daybreak rain still billows from south to north.  Its force reminds me that I am a slender woman who with a big gust could be blown off the road to topple on to the grassy fields.  I pass ancient apple trees, their trunks bent in testament to the wind, fallen apples fragrant with fermentation.

Then the road turns to a slight rise by the Sunday Egg Stand a girl from a nearby farm built to sell eggs and flowers. White dahlias smile from the stand by the egg cooler.  I begin the slow ascent south that will take me by the field where Racer the horse used to run to greet me for a fistful of grass.  Gone now, his spirit keeps me running.  Soon I approach the water stand outside our own drift-wood fence where my husband sets out paper cups of orange and lime Gatorade on a small table.  I grab, gulp and go on.  I know the hill rises steeply for another eighth of a mile, the open view from the top, showing the bay is at high tide, the longer autumn shadows splitting the sun on the water’s surface.  Blackberries thrive on that hill top, berries now dried and fragrant as old wine.  Turn-around for the 10K comes in a dip in the road, darkened on both sides by Palmers’ woods, old as the peninsula itself in giant Doug Firs and Big Leaf Maple trees.  If I were not mid-race, their deep woods would invite me in.  But here is turn-around, monitored by Linda and Stan Herzog.  Linda calls my name.  Stan snaps a photo.

And that is another reason to run — the people.  Two years ago, when I ran more often, I would do this 10K stretch alone.  Some days it felt demanding, lonely and masochistic.  Running in a community is exhilarating.  Back at the start line I stood among families who would walk the 5-K, some with toddlers in strollers pushed along like envoys on a mission.  Kids in t-shirts and jeans, twenty-year-olds in fashionable running tights that show off the ripple of taut muscles, people my age wearing rain or sun hats tied securely under sagging chins. Then there are the thin men in short shorts. They are lithe and slim hipped.  Have they never stopped running?  Some might be 25, some 65, but the way they stretch out their hamstrings, you know this will not be their only race of the year. Around us white tents cover food stands staffed by volunteers.  This is an oyster run, celebrating Quilcene’s famous oysters, so the aroma of wood coals and garlic bread already permeates the air. Depending on where you stand, it is fried food or local ale to keep a mind motivated for returning to this spot after the race.  Everyone is happy. Those who know me, cheer me on.  They seem more confident than I that I will make it the whole way. I will make new friends as the race begins, when I discover whose pace falls in with mine.  That is how I meet Michele and Meg.  We don’t talk much during the run.  All of us are tuned in to whatever music lifts one foot in front of the other, but there are moments of encouragement among us.  Good going.  Feel free to pass.  Yes, the hills are tough for me too.  I pass a woman with her arm around her young son, a stalky boy who clearly has some cognitive impairment.    He smiles widely at me.

“You brought out the sun for us,” I tell him.

He laughs. My voice and his voice fill the same space on the road.  That connecting moment energizes me all the way up the hill.

The sheriff at the bottom of the road directs me to keep to the right until I am at the police cars where I can safely cross over to the finish field.  She applauds me as I run.  Her green shirt has an oyster image:  Sheriff Volunteer it reads.

And finally, the physical part.  I want to remember when the endorphins kick in after the 2^nd kilometer.  I am running downhill by the green apple tree where yesterday I stole enough for a pie.  I look up to Mt. Walker ahead and my chest fills with autumn-washed air.  Breath is wonderful.  Deep, deep breath is exhilarating.  I could run forever on this feeling.  I could spread my arms and mimic the gulls and ravens swooping over the bay.  I start to write this essay in my head so no feeling will fail to remain.

Farther into the run, my legs get heavier.  I need to remind myself that I pronate on my right foot.  I might trip over my foot if I don’t consciously lift it.  Remembering coaching from my friend, Jan, I extend my legs, more forward, less up and down.  My face flushes in the sun, so I scold myself for forgetting sunglasses and sunscreen.  I have long ago left the cool morning start, so I toss my rain jacket to my husband when I pass his water table.  Sweat alternately warms and cools me.  When the finish line is in sight, I imagine myself lying in the park grass.  I imagine how good it will feel to pull my knees to my chest and hug my shins.  When I do arrive at the finish, I stride out as I had not for the entire run.  Here I am about to cross under the finish balloon, people on each side applauding, the announcer calling my name and town.  The friends I know who are standing behind tables loaded with water, fruit, oysters and beer, smile at my success, but show no amazement that I did it.  Only after one takes my picture, do I realize my face is raspberry red.  I sit by another runner on the grass while our bodies cool.  The sun is full out, but I am beginning to chill.  My newly acquainted runner drives me back to my cottage where I peel off my running pants and shirt.  My tongue tastes salt.  My skin feels like salt.  I realize I have excreted a good amount of salt water.  As soon as I persuade myself to leave the hot tub jets, I will drink a tall glass of water.  Every part of my body has been used: my feet, my legs, even my shoulders and neck.  I should feel beat up, but I don’t. I feel twenty years younger.  Maybe I will get back into this running thing.

The best way to feel like a big fish is to select a small pond.  There were 40 runners who ran or walked the 10K.  There was one 81-year-old walker, but I was by far the oldest runner at 75.  I finished smack dab in the middle at #20 with 13 minute miles.   I am proud enough of my over-seventy pace, my over-seventy race.

Author: Mary After Seventy

I am a retired teacher, poet, community volunteer View all posts by Mary After Seventy