Middle Man

I ran the Father’s Day 5-mile race in Central Park this past Sunday. While the weather was cool, the humidity level was 97%, so we were one sweaty pack of runners coming across the finish line. By the time I was done running, I was sweat-soaked, breathing heavy and my legs hurt. But all the effort paid off. I came in 2,250th place.

In case you’re wondering, there are no trophies for that.

I’m strictly a middle-of-the-pack type runner. You don’t see much about us, although I suspect we’re the largest group of runners in the majority of races. Mostly, you hear reports about elite runners, those streamlined professionals who run 4-minute miles and often look like they’d be very grateful if someone would offer them a bite from a cookie. Elite runners are the ones who balance themselves on the fine line between profession and obsession. Sometimes they teeter over that line. I remember reading an interview with one elite runner who talked about the altitude machine she has in her house that pumps less-oxygenated air into her bedroom. That seems a tad extreme, not to mention terribly impractical. I can’t find enough room in the cabinets to put my useless junk, never mind having to clear space for a machine to make me feel I'm living in the Swiss Alps.

I’m happy with my place in the middle. I like it there. I have no worries about trying to win a race because to be honest there’s no way I ever will There are races when I try and challenge myself by going just a bit faster and races when I relax and enjoy the surroundings and the company. Some races, like Sunday’s, are a combination of both. I feel a terrific sense of accomplishment even when I finish at number 2, 250.

The middle-of-the-pack where I run is filled with wonderful diversity. This is the place you’ll find the harried parent who runs to de-stress or two friends who run side by side while they catch up on each other’s lives. In the middle, you’ll come across that person who’s trying gamely to lose a few pounds and that dreamer who is slowly working her way forward, determined to make it to the front of the pack one day.

On Sunday, I spent some time running near a couple, both clearly giving it their all; huffing and puffing while offering each other small bits of encouragement ("We can do this! We’re halfway there!") They were inspiring to be near. And I owe a nod to the handsome, muscled, shirtless runner with the tight running shorts and the angel wings tattooed on his back .I spent some quality time running directly behind you, which I thank you for. You made getting from mile 3 to mile 4 very enjoyable.

When the race was over, I collected my bag and was heading out of the park when I found myself next to the running course at about the 4 and a half mile point. The last few runners left in the race were going by with as much determination as those who had finished well over an hour ago. One was a teenage boy with one leg. Using his crutches for balance he propelled himself forward towards the finish line. The mile-wide smile on his face was proof you didn’t need to be anywhere near the front of the pack to celebrate. Everyone in it, no matter when they finished, won that race.