Run your own race - at Your Own Pace

Thanksgiving Day, dawn spills over Dana Point Harbor where thousands of runners gather for the annual Turkey trot. The largest holiday race in California called people of all ages, sizes, shapes and abilities. Pending on the starting line for the 10-K, speak to a father and his daughter of seven years. Around me, I hear bravado talk about marathons, triathlons, hard bodies and Zippo fat. Fortunately, the people I spy silver haired with knee braces, a young couple with children in jogging strollers and runners clad in costumes ranging from Santa Claus to Elvis Presley. Running in a gold jump suit polyester, and Pompadour wig while carrying a boom box blaring Elvis will be some trick. Me-I just want to stop.

The gun goes off and we all inch our way under the balloon arch. Runners jostle for position, elbowing their way into the pitch. Me-I just smile at the new day and feel right for getting up and down for the event.

By mile two, my righteousness turns into dismay as the seven years from me. Elvis has already done the road turn before me, and I'm late for a woman who must be 10 years and 20 pounds on me. The sense of competitiveness heats up and makes my rhythm. I forget that I already run two miles to the harbor and 4.2 miles left to go. The runners around me set my pace.

Suddenly, as I do the turn, I am struck by a humiliating spectacle. In front of me, arms pumping operates a young man with one leg sparkling in the sun. The metal shank is attached to his thigh. A calf with a thin aluminum door with a metal foot curved like a rocker. He is unaware of who passes. He is running its course at their own pace.

I slow down, take his lesson, and resume my 1-2-3-4 mantra. Lesson learned, smack between the eyes. How many times we let others set the pace, ignoring our goals, our abilities? How often we judge our success or our failure to be what others have done?

Finish despite the pain in the knee. Way behind the silver-haired lady. Well below the 7 years. In view of the elegant full-bodied boy. No matter. And 'my race, my pace. It is a great day for the race the human race.