On Saturday, Samantha and I participated in the Nashville Predators 5K, a road-race that took us around a good chunk of the downtown cityscape. It was our first 5K to run in, second for which to register. Illness kept us away from the event last year even though we both have t-shirts and ticket stubs from the hockey game later that evening.
Our planning for this event always begins with good intentions. We planned out a number of conditioning runs, regular visits to the workout facilities here on property and a healthier diet after the holidays. It never goes according to plan. In spite of being a bit less-than-prepared for it, we lined up at the start, near the back to keep out of the more competitive participants.
As we made our way around the first turn, I took a moment to take stock of our fellow runners and walkers. You can spot the competitive types, with their skin-tight wind jackets, headbands and sunglasses. They were also the same ones that were running before the race even started to stay loose. Some stood off by themselves to collect their thoughts, faces bunched in a serious scowl towards nothing in particular. I envy their dedication, but I cannot help but think that it is rather comical to be that "in the zone" for a race launched by a costumed saber-toothed tiger.
Other participants included moms with those jogging strollers, a guy juggling as he ran, young children (8-10 year-olds), teenagers, middle-aged guys and an amusing group of women twirling hula hoops. As for my wife and I, we were just the couple in our mid-twenties who walked most of it and jogged a few blocks if the spirit so moved us. There were three little girls in blue hockey jerseys running with their parents. I had no idea that there was even a youth hockey league for young girls, but I guess I know now.
We hit the first mile (a little under a third of the total distance) around the 19 minute mark. Obviously, we had no hope of setting records with this one. Our final time came in at a few seconds over 51 minutes. (Note: Whoever accidentally turned in their time under my name on the Nashville Striders Web site ran a much better race than I did. I have e-mailed them to fix it.) One of the elders from church is a high school cross-country coach. We were supposed to have been helping him mulch that morning until we realized the race started at 10 a.m. instead of 8 a.m. I sheepishly told him this morning before service of our time, to which he just laughed and said, "well, you got it in under an hour, so that's good."
So that is my final verdict on the race. We will shoot for a better time next year.