The Run That Started It All
It was a Saturday in late spring, with the economy out of gas like it is now, when someone named Sue invited me to Field Day. She attended community college and aspired to be a teacher; I was in eighth grade and praying I would pass. That day I discovered I was her secret project.
Our dads worked together, and Sue must have heard what was happening at my house. My mom was battling cancer, and me. My younger sisters did poorly under my stand-in care. No one even noticed I never went out on weekends after my friends refused to repair a rupture in our relationship.
Field Day brought the townspeople together in this big park near the high school, in an actual field. I immediately noticed there weren’t many people from school (much to my relief). We watched men try the shot put and toddlers do the diaper derby. We ate popcorn and snow cones, and I think because of that I assured myself we would remain spectators until it was time to go home.
Then came the final event, a 5k run in a succession of oblong circles around the field. It looked like everyone still at Field Day was on the starting line, including me and Sue. I was nervous and I was wearing my Beta Bullet sneakers. They were much cheaper than Converse All-Stars, and they were the only pair of shoes I owned.
The first crowded loop went quickly, and by the third I’d noticed there were more spectators and fewer participants. On the fourth lap, Sue told me to go on without her and dropped out.
It should be noted this was a couple of years before a guy named Jim Fixx would get the entire country running. “Fun runs” weren’t something most people did, especially those struggling with money problems and their mother’s mortality.
I didn’t know how far a 5k was. I yelled to Sue on my next return: “How many loops?” She shrugged, “Six or seven, maybe?”
She was clapping and yelling for me to keep going, as were the people next to her and the people next to them. I remember thinking: This feels too easy for all this attention.
Minutes later I became unnerved by three red-faced men suddenly surrounding me, dollops of their sweat readying for release. I wanted to get away before I got sprayed, so I surged ahead. Then I was behind another teenager and I heard a kid in the crowd yell, “Look, the girl is going to beat another boy.” He must have heard it too because he started pumping his arms and lengthening his stride.
I stuck behind him and when he swung a hard left toward the finish, I followed. Which is how he ended up first in his age group and I was disqualified. I still had a lap to go, according to the race officials. I didn’t contest their math since I’d lost count myself. Complete strangers congratulated me anyway and told me I was one tough girl.
I don’t recall what I said to Sue on our way home. I only hope I sincerely thanked her for giving me that day and that race, still remembered and still revered more than 30 years later.
Our dads worked together, and Sue must have heard what was happening at my house. My mom was battling cancer, and me. My younger sisters did poorly under my stand-in care. No one even noticed I never went out on weekends after my friends refused to repair a rupture in our relationship.
Field Day brought the townspeople together in this big park near the high school, in an actual field. I immediately noticed there weren’t many people from school (much to my relief). We watched men try the shot put and toddlers do the diaper derby. We ate popcorn and snow cones, and I think because of that I assured myself we would remain spectators until it was time to go home.
Then came the final event, a 5k run in a succession of oblong circles around the field. It looked like everyone still at Field Day was on the starting line, including me and Sue. I was nervous and I was wearing my Beta Bullet sneakers. They were much cheaper than Converse All-Stars, and they were the only pair of shoes I owned.
The first crowded loop went quickly, and by the third I’d noticed there were more spectators and fewer participants. On the fourth lap, Sue told me to go on without her and dropped out.
It should be noted this was a couple of years before a guy named Jim Fixx would get the entire country running. “Fun runs” weren’t something most people did, especially those struggling with money problems and their mother’s mortality.
I didn’t know how far a 5k was. I yelled to Sue on my next return: “How many loops?” She shrugged, “Six or seven, maybe?”
She was clapping and yelling for me to keep going, as were the people next to her and the people next to them. I remember thinking: This feels too easy for all this attention.
Minutes later I became unnerved by three red-faced men suddenly surrounding me, dollops of their sweat readying for release. I wanted to get away before I got sprayed, so I surged ahead. Then I was behind another teenager and I heard a kid in the crowd yell, “Look, the girl is going to beat another boy.” He must have heard it too because he started pumping his arms and lengthening his stride.
I stuck behind him and when he swung a hard left toward the finish, I followed. Which is how he ended up first in his age group and I was disqualified. I still had a lap to go, according to the race officials. I didn’t contest their math since I’d lost count myself. Complete strangers congratulated me anyway and told me I was one tough girl.
I don’t recall what I said to Sue on our way home. I only hope I sincerely thanked her for giving me that day and that race, still remembered and still revered more than 30 years later.
