The Oxford Hills 8K Run to the Lake
On July 14, 2002, there was an Oxford Hills 8K Run to the Lake. Though obligations made it impossible for me to participate, still my blood stirred at the thought of it. A race. An eight kilometer race. Right here in Norway, Maine. It made me giddy.
I have always been a pretty good runner. Not world class, but usually fast enough to give other runners something to think about. This ability gave me no small measure of pride.
My opinion of myself, however, was given an adjustment a few years ago while I was in Kenya. I was working at a boys agricultural school about 25 kilometers northwest of Nairobi and I took daily runs along a pleasant stretch of highway. Traffic on the road was rare, and lush greenery made it feel like I was running through the Garden of Eden. Sometimes high in the trees, colobus monkeys screeched and played, ignoring me as I trotted by.
I usually ran in the early evenings, but one day hit the road in the middle of the afternoon. As I was nearing the turn-around point in my run, I heard noises coming from behind. Wondering if I had attracted the attention of something large and carnivorous, I looked back. What I saw was astounding.
Fifty or so little grade school kids dressed in blue and white school uniforms were merrily gaining on me. Many carried school books strapped or tied together in small neat bundles. All were barefoot. As the boys and girls passed me in groups of three and four, they broke off their conversations, smiled, and gave polite greeting. "Hello, mister!" "Jambo!" "Hello, sir!" Then they continued on their way, laughing and chattering as before.
Soon all fifty had passed me and then disappeared over a hill ahead. Obviously, they were on their way home from school.
I stopped and looked back at my running route. There was no grade school along the way. Where they had started from and where their homes were, I had no idea.
I thought I was a pretty good runner. Sure, the heat and thin air may have slowed me down some, but not THAT MUCH. Passed my grade school kids?
Whenever I see runners in a marathon stopping to pick up their race numbers because the Kenyans just blew them off, I'm not a bit surprised.
But whether a runner is as fast as a Kenyan or is struggling just to finish, there is something ancient and glorious about a foot race. It makes no difference if it's the Boston Marathon or a small-town 8k, the procedure is the same. Everyone gathers together, someone says go, and the first one to the finish line wins. It's that simple.
But it's not that simple. There are more ways of winning than taking first or second. Runners are competing against each other, but they are also competing against themselves. I've never managed to come in first, but I have often felt triumphant at the end of a race. Setting a new personal best, mustering the will to sprint at the end, or even hitting the physiological wall with no energy-making substances left to fire your muscles, yet continuing on in a halting stagger to somehow make the finish line, these are victories, too.
And how grand that the Oxford Hills provided a venue for runners of all abilities to pursue those victories. And for loved ones and racing fans to witness them and cheer.