Running the race

We milled in the crowd lined up on Tolt Avenue behind the big red arch that marked the start of the race. Dad, Mom, and I all wore numbers indicating that we were registered to run in Carnation's Independence Day 5k. Other runners jostled our elbows and toes; we jostled back as we tried to determine our pace and where we should line up. The pace markers backed up to make more room for the runners; Mom edged back to stay with the 10 minute mile runners while Dad and I stayed up with the 8-minute-milers, but none of us were sure what our pace would be.

As we chatted on the sidewalk before lining up, Mom mentioned Grandpa and said, wet-eyed with a choke in her voice, "I could cry, thinking about him!" He would have loved to be there, running a race with his family, cracking jokes with strangers, making us laugh with silly jigs. It was easy to imagine him with a number pinned to his t-shirt; he ran in many races, from family 5ks to marathons. He would train with his tomato-red knit hat on to keep his bald head warm, and stop at the gas station for coffee and to say hello. On race day, it wasn't about winning but about working hard and about the people around him, always about the people.

He often lined up at the start of a race with grandkids or his son-in-laws or friends, but I don't remember ever running a race with Grandpa (Mom says maybe I did as a very small child, at another Independence Day race in Fort Lewis). In fact, this Carnation Fourth of July event was my first race ever. But as the gun went off and the runners broke free, it didn't feel strange and new; old memories crowded in so close I could feel Grandpa's sweaty hug and hear his delighted cackle and see his the crooked fingers on his raised hands. I swept aside the sweet memories along with the tears pricking my eyes so I could see the pavement and breathe deep and easy.

My legs and lungs felt strong; I edged to the side to pass old men and plump young women and boys with crew cuts. I knew Dad had been right behind me when we started, but I didn't find out till the race was over that he stayed with me for most of the first mile. If a young boy slowed and began weaving in front of me, or a dad pushing a double stroller cut me off, I thought of Grandpa and smiled. He would have been delighted to share the course, interested in the stories of those around him.

When we passed a volunteer shouting out the time at the one-mile mark, I ran quietly by, but I thought of Grandpa and how he would have done something to connect with the man. When we passed a lady pointing out the route at a fork in the trail I thought of him again and imagined what I could have said to her as I instead ran by in silence. When we passed a row of volunteers holding paper cups of water out to us, I was ready; I pumped my arms in the air and said, "Woo-hoo!" just like Grandpa would have done. I waved at a little boy sitting on his grandma's lap and watching the race go by; I grinned at volunteers cheering us on at another corner. I ran the race marked out for me with perseverance, with delight, with intentionality, with eyes fixed outward.

Pounding down Tolt Avenue towards the red arch, I eased into a sprint. The empty spaces along the route filled in and the cheers became continuous as I neared the finish. A row of cheerleaders from the high school -- the announcer on the loudspeakers -- the double yellow line, arrow-straight to the end. It wasn't till after I burst over the line, breath ragged, face tomato-red like Grandpa's hat, and walked a cool-down block and came back to join the bystanders lining the home stretch that I found Heidi, Peter, Lucy, and Annie. They had been there for me, cheering me on, though I was too intent on the finish to pick them out from the crowd.

I joined them and we eagerly peered down the avenue to watch Dad and Mom's approach. Soon we saw Dad; Heidi and I hollered and cheered, but he didn't appear to see us. So when we picked out Mom's form, we turned it up a notch. I lifted Annie and thrust her out over the road, and together we cheered in our last runner for the day.

On the three-block walk back to Aaron and Heidi's house, Peter and I had our own set of races, Lucy on my back. ("Let's go faster, Aunt Julie!" she said, and then laughed when I picked up the pace. "I'm bumping, I'm bumping!") Later Annie wanted me to pin my number onto her shirt so she could be a runner too. As the new generations sprout up, we pass the baton and the race continues. Thanks for running well, Grandpa.