This past 4th of July I ran my first Peachtree Road Race.
I was SO happy to be there.
I almost didn’t go because I hadn’t trained properly. Sure, I’d had surgery the month before and couldn’t do much. But, frankly, I didn’t do anything.
Instead, I sat on my butt and whined about the things I couldn’t do. I spent too much time on Facebook begrudging working Zumba instructors and friends who posted about their BRFs, PRs and WODs. It was ugly and my negativity made for some unusually blah days around here.
I went to the race, anyway. 1 of 60,000.
The overcast skies were a blessing for those of us who hadn’t trained in the heat. The huge flag at the start was awesome and I was startled by how grateful I felt to be American. I thought about my cousins Brett and Mike, and my grandfather, and every other soldier who has ever braved real fireworks on behalf of the rest of us.
The start of the M wave (M for “mosey”) was kind of anticlimatic, but running through Buckhead was like a slideshow of my early twenties. Then I passed Piedmont Hospital where I left both of my breasts and the last of my cancer. Next was Midtown where I restarted my advertising career and finally grew comfortable in my own skin (age 27, give or take). Just in time to meet my husband…
Who was waiting for me at Piedmont Park.
Truth be told, I didn’t run all of the race. I even walked a few times, crossing the finish line in 1:16:08. Not a time I’d gleefully post on Facebook. Even so, the only disappointment of the day was the color of my first ever Peachtree shirt.
The lessons here? Participate. Run your own race. And, smile when you see the cameras.