The Big Race

4 hours and 19 minutes, in case you were wondering. That's how long it takes to walk 13.1 miles. As a younger man, I trained diligently for a few half marathons and actually ran the entire courses from start to finish in respectable times none the less, but that was a few years and many pounds ago. For my dad's 64th birthday, he wanted my brother and me to participate in the local half marathon with him. The race was actually on his 64th birthday, so it made the commitment that much easier. Despite not a shred of actual training this go round, we were planning to walk the entire course, so I asked myself, "how hard could it be?" The answer...quite.
I showed up to the big race downtown with no breakfast in my stomach, sporting old Nikes, and a chewed up GPS running watch courtesy of our new puppy, Tux. It was his handy work from the night before after the boredom of lying on the bedroom carpet licking himself become too much to bear. The cool morning air blew all around the crowd gathered outside at 7:30am under the iconic "Sun Sphere" at the site of the 1982 Worlds Fair. A large American flag blew beautifully in the wind, while hoisted high above the start line by a local Fire Department ladder truck.
The music and atmosphere at the start line was awesome, but then the race started. It took less than a mile for my left heel to start hurting. I've battled heel pain for about a year now without relief. A sore heel and the love for all things sweet has no doubt derailed my future as a professional runner or owner of medium dress shirts. On the course, we immediately noticed large puddles of water gathered in the roadway from the heavy rains the night before. The puddles linked together like some terrible obstacle from a video game, made navigating the course on a sore heel all the more fun.
Then it happened, a simple glance over my shoulder solidified the pride crushing realization that we were bringing up the rear of the race. By "rear" I mean the back, the end, the caboose, whatever you want to call it. As we walked the course over the next few miles we took note of the clothing left behind by runners actually exerting enough energy to sweat and need to shed clothing. Cups of half drank PowerAde were crumbled on the ground near water stations, by runners too focused on their time to slow long enough to finish the entire drink or find a garbage can. Despite our pace and lack of any real thirst, I consumed one or two cups of PowerAde at each available station. I like the taste of PowerAde and it seemed a shame to waste the already poured cups sitting invitingly on the table.
Too many cups of PowerAde led to a few visits to the port a potties scattered along the course. Serious runners looking to qualify for future races wouldn't dare deviate from the course to use the restroom. From the moment the large plastic door of the port a potty swung open however, I knew at least a few runners had made the pop in before I arrived. All along the side of the course, people were cheering. The overenthusiastic and unwarranted cheers got louder as our crew of three slowly approached. "You can do it!" "Keep going." "Don't give up." One older gentleman approached me specifically saying, "Just one foot and then another. Just one foot then another." I thought about saying, "Hey, I've been here before old man," but my conscious got the better of me.
As we made our way into the middle of the course, we walked through a local neighborhood. Signs offering humor and encouragement were numerous, as were tables set up and manned by local homeowners. Doughnut table, stop for a quick piece of bacon...don't mind if I do. I was burning the calories anyway, and just like the PowerAde, it would have been a shame to let it go to waste.
The longer we walked, the more my heel and body hurt. By the time we crossed the finish line at Neyland Stadium, I was in pretty intense pain. I placed the "finisher" medal around my neck and headed directly to the concourse, to find the Domino's pizzas that always await runners at race end.
Today as I hobbled into the office, my cell phone vibrated notifying me I had a new message. It was an email from the company that captures race photos, videos, and official stats. It was official, out of 128 men in my age group, yours truly came in...128. Despite taking half of my Sunday trying to walk my way through a half marathon that should take under 2 hours to complete, and despite being the last man to walk across the finish line for my age group, I took pride in the accomplishment when I watched the video of my dad and my brother, by my side, walking across the finish line together in matching shirts my brother had made special for this occasion.
Life isn't a sprint, it's a marathon. It's about a slow walk through our time here together in fellowship with those we love. It's about enduring pain sometimes to see our Father's perfect plan for our lives come to fruition. It's about taking note of all of those around us who selflessly serve others, just like the volunteers serving PowerAde, and homeowners handing out bacon. It's about encouraging others with words of love and hope, "Just one foot then another. Just one foot then another."
This life, this race, can be difficult sometimes. Some days you may feel like runner 128 in a field of 128, but you can't give up. You can't quit. What's waiting at the finish line of this race is far greater, far better, than a slice of cold cheese pizza from Domino's. When you are weary and weak, place your hope in the Lord. We are taught in Isaiah 40:31 to do just that, "But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint." So where will you place your hope? How are you going to walk, the big race?
Much Love, Adam