Stretching the 5K into a 6K

      Last weekend I entered a 5K with my two daughters. None of us were in great shape for it, but we were determined to do it anyway. Also, we paid the entry fee and wanted our money's worth. Right? We got it.
      My youngest daughter, whom I shall call "Belle" did not show up at all.  I picked up my other daughter,"Carrie", and we got there early. TOO early it turns out. This must be why my mother tried to teach us to always arrive with no minutes to spare.
      While we are pinning on our numbers, fiddling with my IPOD shuffle, worrying/grousing about Belle, they announce the starting of the race. Aaack! They've changed the race time to 10 minutes earlier! My shuffle won't work!! Stupid thing (or is it me?)!!! Now I have a worthless thing on my arm, and worthless ear phones, and no where to put them but in my sports bra (luckily there was plenty of room). We hustle over to the sign that shows our pace and assess the competition. We self-righteously notice that we are in better physical condition than the fat lady and the old guy, and immediately feel better. The horn signals the start. We cross the starting line feeling pretty cool.
     Carrie and I talk and laugh. We are jogging! We are in the cool race with our cool shirts on! People are cheering us! Then we come to the place where I thought the course turns left. Bummer! Apparently we are running over the hill that goes over the train tracks, and THEN turning left. Ugh. Ok. We tackle the hill. Did it! Booyah! Feeling kind of awesome now! And then.... hmmm....the racers are still heading south. No turning left of any kind. I begin to jog up to people and nonchalantly say (as nonchalantly as one can who is already wheezing), "This is the 5K, right?" "Guy one" looks at me like I have committed a serious breach of race etiquette, and says, "I entered the Half-Marathon." Whoo! Umm....I guess we all started together? I ask a large woman who is already walking, and she says the same thing, albeit without the glaring. She's too tired.      Up ahead I see to my dismay and mistake certainty, that the runners are turning right. This is definitely wrong. We are wrong. Yes, we are accidentally running in the Half-Marathon. Not only that, but "old guy" and "fat lady" are in better shape than we are.
      We do what anyone would do in this situation. We stop running, go into the Wendy's and use the bathroom.
      Feeling much better now, it's time for decision-making. Do we retrace our steps back to the left turn and try to rejoin our race, do we try to stay with the one we're in, or do we go back to the "race party" area and get the free breakfast and massages? Carrie is advocating the latter. I think I should finish the race, but I want her to talk me out of it. To win the argument, I meanly suggest that she cannot count this as one of her goals (to run three 5K's this year) if she doesn't finish the course. I win! And I lose. We head back to the missed left turn. I'm already pooped.
      Walking back, we see the 5K'ers up ahead, all turning left like I thought, in front of the hill. We try a shortcut to avoid having to go over the hill again. After trying two different directions, and seeing that homeless people do, in fact, live under the bridge, we realize that over the hill we must go. By the time we get to the turn-off, everyone has left us in the dust. Everyone. We can't even see a single person except the army-guy-wearing-camo's race official that is protecting the cones and pointing left so we won't accidentally go over the hill. Which we already did. As we ran by a mile behind everyone else, I said to him, "Don't ask." He looks a little frightened.
      OK, we're running again. We make a few jokes, which is our families method of dealing with our own ineptitude. We discuss Belle again. We stop talking. We can't breath. Laughing has lost us precious air molecules. We are running by the cemetery. I secretly envy the people resting peacefully who no longer feel compelled to run 5K's. Carrie says she can't run anymore. I weakly suggest we make it to the corner where we take the next left turn . We think we can. Besides, the cemetery inspires us. We can beat them at least.
      We make it to the corner. I triumphantly hit the cone with my hand! We did it! We can feel good about ourselves! We turn left. We....wait! We see two obese people in the race lane. They are walking. They can't be in the 5K.....or CAN they? We look at each other. We----can----take----them!!! We can pass them by walking fast! The competitive juices start flowing. We are back in the game! Half way there, Carrie starts to run. I join her. Wohoo! We pass them. They make a feeble attempt to run as we hurl by, but they can't touch this! After we put a little distance between us, we think we will walk some more. But then we see a woman with a 3 year old! We can't be beaten by a toddler can we? NO! We keep running. As we pass her we see that she is 7-8 months pregnant. We feel good about our decision. Up ahead we see more walkers. The die is cast. We must, in fact, pass as many of them as we can. Again, because we must. When you don't have the muscle or the lung power to do something, pure meanness will suffice. One female walking group we approached started to run as soon as we got there. "Oh no you didn't!", I said using the vernacular of the cool crowd. They laughed and said we had inspired them.  I smiled encouragingly.  "Rats!", I secretly thought.  They gave up before we did though, because we have that gene. The one that makes us try to win when we've got nothing left.
      Finally we see the big blue arch that signals the finish line. "Yea" I think. I also think, "I hope Carrie slows down to a walk now." I am dying. There's no one else between us and the finish, and the people behind can't catch us. Our chip times are screwed up and we can't even be recorded on the time board. What does Carrie do? She starts her kick! What we professional joggers like to call that "burst of speed" that we saved for the end. Can you believe her? Who raised her???? I did what any mother would do. I pulled my "burst of speed" out of my.....somewhere impolite.  Chu chu chu chu chu chu chu chu..... I can almost hear the sound from "Chariots of Fire". Oh yeah.....I beat her! HA! I am 30 years older than her!  I think there was a good lesson in there somewhere for her. We mom's do what we can.
         Also, Belle? If you're reading this, we beat you too.