| anksgiving Day, dawn spills over Dana Point Harbor | | | | pounds on me. The sense of competitiveness heats |
| where thousands of runners gather for the annual | | | | up and so does my pace. I forget that I already run |
| Turkey Trot. The largest holiday race in California | | | | two miles down to the Harbor and have 4.2 miles left |
| beckons folks of all ages, sizes, shapes, and abilities. | | | | to go. The runners around me set my pace. |
| Waiting at the starting line for the 10-K, I talk to a | | | | Suddenly, as I make the turn, I am struck by a |
| Dad and his 7 year-old daughter. Around me, I hear | | | | humbling sight. Facing me, arms pumping runs a young |
| bravado talk about marathons, triathlons, hard bodies | | | | man with one leg glittering in the sun. The metal |
| and zippo fat content. Thankfully, I spy silver haired | | | | shank is attached to his thigh. A thin aluminum calf |
| folks with knee braces, a young couple with babies in | | | | leads to a metal foot curved like a rocker. He is |
| jogging strollers and runners decked in costumes | | | | oblivious to anyone who passes him. He is running his |
| ranging from Santa Claus to Elvis Presley. Running in a | | | | own race at his own pace. |
| gold polyester jump suit, and pompadour wig while | | | | I slow down, take his lesson, and resume my 1-2-3-4 |
| carrying a boom box blaring Elvis tunes will be some | | | | mantra. Lesson learned, smack between the eyes. |
| trick. Me-I just want to finish. | | | | How many times do we let others set the pace, |
| The gun goes off and we all inch our way under the | | | | ignoring our own goals, our abilities? How many times |
| balloon arch. Runners jostle for position, elbowing their | | | | do we judge our success or our failure by what |
| way to break into stride. Me-I just grin at the new | | | | others have done? |
| day and feel righteous for having gotten up and | | | | I finish despite the pain in my knee. Way behind the |
| down to the event. | | | | silver-haired lady. Well behind the 7 year-old. Ahead of |
| By mile two, my righteousness turns to dismay as | | | | the sleek bodied teenager. It doesn't matter. It is my |
| the seven year-old passes me by. Elvis has already | | | | race, at my pace. And it is a great day for the |
| made the turn way before me and I am lagging | | | | race-the human race. |
| behind a woman who must have 10 years and 20 | | | | |