The Road to Glory: Day 1 - Reaching into the Past

That's me in the middle; the barefoot red head. This picture was taken during the last 10 yards, or so, of a 200 yard dash in 1st grade. No. I didn't win that race, inching past my competitor by a hair. I came in second. Now that I think of it, I've never won a race in my life; at least not an official one. This race was an all-island conference race, or something like that, where each public school sent a representative from each grade, K-12, to race. Like the picture you see here, there were many kids running, like they played, in bare feet. In fact, I can't remember wearing shoes unless it was either to church or an establishment which involved food. The reason I'm in this photograph, captured mid-stride, is because I qualified as being the fastest kid in my grade... in my school.

I remember the day I beat out the fastest kid in order to qualify. I will never forget how it felt. During our PE hour the entire class had to sprint from one side of the playground, down to the other side, and back again, after which we were allowed to shoot hoops or jumprope. The fastest kid in our grade always finished by about 10 or more yards before everyone else. But that day was a great day, as usual in Hawaii, and something within me knew I could beat him. The first length of the schoolyard we were neck and neck, but he was quick off his turn around and was a good four strides ahead of me with a quarter of the race left. By all accounts it looked like he would again be first. My breath hurt, my legs flailed, and I couldn't catch him. Somewhat counterintuitively, however, I bent my chin down to my chest, held my breath, closed my eyes, and pumped my fists up and down at a faster pace. I reached a point, almost in an instant, when the pain in my six year old legs vanished, for that matter the sound around me had vanished as well. The next thing I knew the soft green Hawaiian grass beneath my feet had given way to hard green asphalt. I won.

But that was week before, and the kids that lined up with me along the start line were all the fastest boys in my grade on the entire island, which must have been a lot of six year olds because we were three six-year-olds deep at the line. Most of them ran barefoot. The whistle (not a gun) blew (not fired) and we were off. I was quickly overtaken by the swarm of runners behind me. "Start off slow." My dad advised me. "Pace yourself, then book it at the end." Forget that! I thought to myself! You're going to lose. By the time I decided I needed to pick up the pace, I was near the back of the pack. Not knowing the rules of track running, I needed to get around, but I couldn't squeeze through, it was so tight. So I ran on the strip of grass between the track and the inside fence that surrounded the football field. As we turned the corner I was in fifth, then fourth, then third. With about 30 yards left to go I remembered what my mother told me. "Run Big A. Run like the Devil's chasing after you!" So I ran. I ran until the burning in my legs faded away to a quiet hummm...

But I didn't win. I got a 2nd Place Ribbon, which may or may not be somewhere in a box in the garage in my parents house. But I have the picture and more importantly I have the memory. From that unofficial race, I learned how to run, and how to win. From that first official race, I learned how to lose, but more importantly, I learned how to love running even when you lose.

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Friday, January 14th, 2011 - 2.25 miles