Chapter 7

“So how are you doing?”

Lisa and I sat down at our table. This morning I would finally be buying her the breakfast that almost killed our ... whatever it was that we had; I still wasn’t entirely sure. It seemed to be somewhere in that no-man’s land of something more than friendship, but something less than a romantic relationship.

However, that wasn’t important at that moment, because this was no ordinary breakfast. It was Lisa’s first pre-race meal. Lisa’s first-ever 5K was two hours away.

She took a deep breath and a sip of water before answering. “Nervous. Excited. Worried I’m going to throw up breakfast,” she said with a shaky giggle.

“Well, throwing up is why you’re not going to get a big meal. Otherwise, you’ll be fine. You’re ready for this.” And she was. She was beating herself up for still not even being faster than I was, but I was confident that she would still finish within an hour, which was her goal for today. I was also confident that she would be leaving me in the dust before much longer, once she was no longer carrying around the fair amount of extra weight she still had.

After a quick, high-carb breakfast, we headed the short distance down the road to where the race was being held. As we drove, I remembered my first race and how mentally overwhelming it was: the loud music, the lines, the vendors, the giant inflatable start line, and the crowd ... what, on that morning, had seemed to my eyes to be an unimaginably large crowd ... and that was for a 5K with only 43 entrants. Today’s race promised to be considerably larger.

I remembered well the disorientation and nervousness and even fear I felt that morning. I saw it on Lisa’s face in those moments.

We both checked in, picking up our race bibs and timing chips. We walked around the staging area, looking at the display tables that had been set up by the various local small businesses sponsoring the race.

When I checked my phone and saw that it was 20 minutes before the start of the race, I motioned Lisa over to a nearby curb. We both sat down, and I put in my earbuds and cranked the music on my phone.

I always put together a unique playlist for once I’m on the course, usually with a collection of up-tempo, hard-driving songs, but I always listen to the same playlist before the race. It is decidedly much more mellow, and relaxes me as I stretch myself out and do a few visualization techniques that I learned in counseling over the years.

It starts with a hymn I grew up with that is based on Psalm 95. Every time I listen to it, I am instantly transported to one of the most peaceful places my mind can ever go – the chapel of the youth center where I spent many days throughout high school. This morning, as always, I visualized being in there, visualized the peace that was so palpable in that place that it was nearly visible, and as I listened to it I slowly stretched out my arms and legs as I focused on taking deep, cleansing, calming breaths.

The second song is another hymn I grew up with, called “I Am the Bread of Life.” It was my maternal grandmother’s favorite hymn. When I left home to go out to Colorado for school, my father was so angry that he refused to speak to me for a week before I left, and continued not speaking with me for two months after I got there. My mother spent the entire 90-minute drive to the train station haranguing me about what a horrible decision I was making.

My grandmother ... my 80-year-old grandmother living on Social Security in Section 8 housing ... offered to cosign five figures worth of student loans. She had always believed in me, no matter what I had in mind to do. She always supported me and encouraged me – and, as always, I was overwhelmed with appreciation for the offer, even as I declined it.

Listening to that song before the race serves as a mental prompt to remember her in these moments, to invite her spirit to stand on the sidelines, screaming as loud as she can in her native Brooklyn accent, cheering me on and urging me toward the finish.

The third song of the morning was where I began to mentally shift gears, to pump my mind up, to push the stretches just a little father: “Homeland” by Kenny Rogers. On this morning, it was only when I saw Lisa bemusedly give me a sidelong glance that I realized I was singing the words, “Knock us right down, we’ll get up again” out loud. I tuned out the music for a few minutes so I could focus on using the remaining time to get myself prepared physically ... and move past the slight bit of embarrassment I felt.

For the last song, though, I took out an earbud and handed it to Lisa to listen with me: “Home” by Phillip Phillips.

The song was the theme music for several video tributes following the Boston Marathon bombings, honoring not only the first responders, but also the people caught in the middle of that maelstrom. These were not the elite runners. These were the people who had no prayer of seeing any prize money. These were the people who were just there for love of the sport, love of the challenge, love of the city of Boston. These were the people who ran past police officers telling them to stop so they could run into the blast zone to offer what assistance they could. These were the people who crossed the finish line, then ran two more miles to the nearest hospital to donate blood.