Crim

August 24, 2015

Greetings from point C,

I don’t remember if I was given this math problem in high school, or if it is just one of those clichés I carry around in my head. 

Two trains leave the train station on parallel tracks; train A leaves two hours before train B, traveling 40 miles an hour.  Train B leaves the station traveling 70 miles an hour.  How long before Train B passes train A?

I don’t usually do complicated math problems in my head.  I have counted sheep, counted blessings, and I have prorated the value of a really high quality bicycle over the years of use, without using a rationalization estimator.  I have guessed how much tip to leave.  Beyond that, I leave the complex thinking to the smart people who made calculators. 

Just hold that thought.

As many of you know, I am a runner, and one race I never miss is the Crim.  For 34 straight years I have lined up for this ten mile race in my hometown.  One of the great things about having this streak is being a part of the 30 Year Club; a slowly growing group of men and women who have managed to run thirty or more Crim 10 mile races.

Membership is as much a fun achievement as it is a badge of honor.  When you are inducted there is a brief introduction, a few jokes about runner’s knees, and then we have cake.  And then we run.   We are a diverse, motley, ragged group, as you might imagine.  Add thirty years of running to anyone’s starting age, another complex math problem, and you will add up a lot of miles.

There are no real perks that come with membership, except for one.

On race day the Crim Festival of races signs up about 15,000 runners, usually six or seven thousand in the 10 mile event, so the starting line can be crowded.  It is a big enough race to attract internationally ranked runners, including a significant contingent from Africa, a group that most people simply refer to as ‘the Kenyans’.

So, to the perk.  The 30 Year Club runners are given a spot at the front of the race, right next to the elite runners.  Even better, these veterans, some of whom are 70 plus years old, are allowed to start running fifteen minutes before the gun goes off for the official start.  Pretty cool.

I have never taken advantage of this benefit.  Somehow it didn’t seem ‘sporting’.  It just felt awkward, so I tend to melt back into the pack where my people usually are found when the gun goes off.

But, this year I was standing at the starting line when they announced the 30 year gang would be heading out, and I impulsively went out with them.  It was a strange thing, to look back and see several thousand people left behind, a colorful blur of energy, waiting to surge out after me.

The first thing I noticed was how quiet it was.  I am accustomed to running in packs of people in a race, and with that comes the thunder of feet, wheezing, laughing, the chatter of the runners around me.  The few 30 year vets on the road faded behind me and I settled into an easy pace and found myself trailing only two other people.

The crowds lining the streets were not sure what to make of me.  Some, not quite expecting the race to have started, were dozing in their chairs, or looking at their phones as I ran by.  A few gave me pity applause.

About a half mile out the math problem occurred to me.  Somewhere behind me were a dozen or so elite athletes, primarily ‘The Kenyans’, who would shortly be released onto the course.  I know from history they would be running about four and half minute miles.  I was running seven and half minutes miles.  So, when would Train A pass Train B?

I thought about this long enough to decide I wasn’t going to come up with an answer, and then went back to thanking every spectator individually for their support.  I even photo bombed some ladies who were taking a group shot at the aid station.

Just past the five mile mark, I heard the chirp of the police motorcycle first, and then a cruiser went by, and then the press truck.  And then I heard the sound I knew was at the solution of the math problem.  This was how long it took.

The lead pack devoured the road next to me.  They were silent, the only sound was the tapping of their feet, a much quicker cadence than I am accustomed to hearing.  They went by as one living thing, seven men surging past me, a blur of muscle and singlets and gleaming flesh.  They were clustered in a tight pack, focused, an intensity radiated off of them.  It was both inspiring and intimidating.

For this fraction of a second, a period of time which seemed to spin out for a breathless eternity,

I had this urge, something that compelled me to dig down and run.  There was something that, in spite of how unlikely it seems, that said, ‘Go after them. See what that takes.’

I smile as I write this, not because of the comedy in it, but the simple joy in it.  There is no amount of pride, or will or spirit, that would balance what was needed physically to go with them.  But it was a small thrill even to stretch out for a few yards and try.

“You guys go ahead…” I said after a few moments.  “I’ll catch up.”  I fell back into my pace, panting, smiling as they vanished over the hill ahead of me. The rest of the run was nearly effortless, gliding in the wake of the elite pack, and the next hundred or so would-be challengers that drew past me in pursuit. 

I don’t know if I will take the early start next year.   As much as I enjoyed seeing the leaders up close, it still feels like I was an intruder, I was out of place.   As much as I respect the gift the Crim gives us 30 year runners, I think I’ll follow my instinct on this. 

My training and my effort and my desire earn me a spot a little further back into the pack.  It is a good place to be, filling my space, adding my sounds, running with the people who would run with me.  See you in year 35.

Hope this finds you going after it,

David

Copyright © 2015 David Smith