Civitan Frosty 5K

25 means possible. She walked with my daughter Rebecca away from the starting line toward the back-most corral to await her fate.

She was filled with no small amount of trepidation and self-doubt. But my wife is nothing if not driven. When she sets her mind to doing something, even if it is not such a great idea, nothing better stand in her way. The siren sounded and she was off. She was doing this race all alone because our daughter Rebecca was running with one of her friends to help pace her through the miles. Rebecca was also cruising toward her third consecutive year as a Road Warrior, a finisher of all 10 RRS distances. That’s no small accomplishment (and one her father has never been close to accomplishing, although her mother has a Road Warrior trophy of her very own.)

The first few miles are always a struggle for my wife. She suffers greatly with the various aches and pains that unused muscles scream about as they start to work out, and she is mentally intimidated by so many miles lying in front of her.

After a few miles, however, she settles into her pace and things get a little easier. Her pace seems a little brisker at that point and her walk breaks become less and less frequent.

After what seemed like an unbelievably short period of time, she saw Chris on his inbound leg, bounding over the course with his long, lanky gait. She called out to him and he briefly looked up and waved (sort of) before quickly settling back into his mind, attempting to battle the demons of the late race. My wife wished him well and refocused on her own task.

A few other runners noticed the interaction and asked Christina if that was her son. After she answered in the affirmative, a few said they recognized him from other races and commended his running talent. Christina smiled and humbly expressed her pride in her son’s accomplishments. At some level, however, this was just her son, plain old Chris, doing what Chris does. It all seems so normal to everyone in the family, even though, at some level, we all know it’s extraordinary.

Much later, she saw me on the opposite side of the road struggling through my second half of the Half. I looked up and called out to her. She bellowed her own words of encouragement right back at me before moving on.

At last, she made her turn-around and headed back toward the finish line. She was halfway there! Soon thereafter, she saw Rebecca and her friend heading toward the turn-around.

The miles were getting long and the weather was warming up. Christina had to walk more and more. “This is where that missed training might have been useful,” she chided herself. She was in pain, but she was in really familiar territory. She had learned well the agony of those last long miles of a half marathon. This particular pain, however, was really no worse than many other races. Long experience had taught her that she could finish if she could just keep her focus. Others around her would run, then walk, then run again in an endless cycle of moving humanity. She would pass someone, only to be passed later, and then to pass them again. She lost herself in the familiar rhythm of the race. The pain soon faded to the background.

Eventually, she reached the finish-line area, and made herself pick up the pace. She was close to her regular finish time despite her poor training and she wanted to make as good a showing as possible. She poured everything she had left in her into that finishing sprint. Many of her fellow runners fell back, unable to match her new pace. She slumped over in exhaustion after crossing the line. She couldn’t believe she had finished that fast. It was exhilarating, but she was totally spent. “I’ll train next year,” she promised to herself.

She was only a few minutes in front of Rebecca and her friend. They crossed the line side by side, looking no worse for the wear. It’s good to be young.

Soon the family was reunited and we all made our way toward the car together. It was quite a collection: A newly christened RRS champion, a sub two-hour miracle, a three-peat Road Warrior and a race-hardened veteran of the half marathon.

We had all seen the race from different perspectives, and we all shared stories of what it was like for us. For an outsider, it might seem strange that our stories were so similar. Our struggles, our determination, our agonies, our uncertainties, and our victories all mirrored one another.

We are so different in our abilities. We each sing our own notes, so to speak. Yet, we are singing the same song, and when sung together we make the song fuller, the emotion deeper, and the experience stronger for everyone.

For a runner, victory is not only about having the loudest or softest notes. It’s about doing the best that you can wherever you stand in the spectrum. And when those notes are sung together, our voices harmonize, making something new. That something is vastly different and better than any noise we could make on our own. We turn a lonely tune into a song rendered by an entire choir … and that is music to everyone’s ears.