Thursday, July 13, 2017

Down and Out? NO! Out and Up(beat!)

“70-74 Female, First Place in the 5K goes to Carrie Slayback!” the announcer called out. I hurried up, snatched my ribbon with quick thanks, and happily melted back into the crowd. The 70 to 74 places were announced, then—I heard, “80-84, Female First Place, goes to… ” Didn’t catch the name, but spotted a petite runner, with strong legs make a dash to grab the ribbon. I felt an immediate connection. Shoving aside my self consciousness, I ran in front of the stage to catch the 84-year-old’s retreating form.” I do not ordinarily grab and hug complete strangers, but I hugged her.

“Congratulations,” I told her, looking into a youthful face with stylishly side-rimmed red glasses. 
“I’m right behind ya,’” I said.

How old you?” she asked.

“73, I answered.”  

She accepted my hug graciously, and said, “I’m thankful for every day I’m out running.” 

And that is why I had to make contact with her. The next ten years will slide by like a fast mile. She’ll be a 94-year-old runner, and I plan to be in her shoes, accepting my award. 

Speaking of age 94, a gray haired lady in a wheelchair sat beside my group during the award ceremony. As the oldest participant, she received a crystal vase, and an ovation from the crowd. Her daughter, standing by the wheelchair, teared up watching her mom arise from the chair and walk slowly, to accept her award, flashing a radiant grin that sparkled more than the crystal.

Well aware of what caregiving entails, I said to the daughter, “That award belongs to both of you.” 

“It’s teamwork,” she admitted, reseating her mom. They rolled off.

For me, running this race had been questionable. Saturday morning was the first day I awoke without a wracking cough. I’d been down and out for ten days.  Whether it’s the virus or inaction, I developed a sore back. The occasional cough, hurt.  

Some would stay home, but The Scenic 5K is a local race where I could pal around with four close friends—Couldn’t resist. Getting out proved, again that activity is the best medicine.

I routinely run nine-mile work-outs so a three-mile 5K is a jaunt. Because the mileage was well within my abilities, I registered. Ambling together to the start under blessedly overcast skies, my friends and I awaited the horn. I looked around for my competition but found nothing but youngsters within sight. “Darn,” I thought, I don’t want to get a first because I’m the only grandma on the course.” The horn sounded and we were off, 

My friend, Laurie later described the breathlessness accompanying the first running steps. The start is exciting and we take off, never learning to start slowly nor remembering to breathe for the first quarter mile. So it was the second quarter mile when the rewarding rhythm of the step/breath finally relieved my panicked gasp. Then the voice in my head said, “focus on the truth: “Every step counts. Keep rhythm. Keep eyes clear of distractions such as other runners, homemade signs, spectators.” PASS MILE ONE.Timer called out 9 minutes, 58 seocnds.  

My friends, a decade younger, passed me. “Do not try to overtake them.This is my race, nobody else's. I’m in charge of hard work and endurance.” My knee hurt. I have confidence that I can run through it. I did, three times in this race. My back hurt, confidence that the pain won’t stop me. Fleeting thoughts that I could go faster without the back and knee pain. Toss them out. Keep the rhythm. PASS MILE TWO. 

Only one mile to go. Pass another runner, an experience I have less now that I’m  older.  Climbing hills, I say to myself, “This is what I train for, this is why I do Tuesday morning ‘hill repeats.’” I climb the hill. Circle the park, smell the finish. MILE THREE. I sprint the last .1 MILE to the end and watch the finish line advance to meet my footfalls. 

I’m deeply happy. I passed another endurance test, triumphed over pain and finished with more energy and bounce than I had to start the morning. 

My friends and I line up for photos and the generous servings of restaurant food presented to every runner. All other races, even 26.2 mile marathons, hand runners an orange, half banana, bag of crackers, and an energy bar. The Scenic 5K stands out for a platefuls of food from big-name Newport Beach restaurants, tables with table cloths and an awards stage with an announcer. 

Corona del Mar’s Scenic 5K stands out in another way, and perhaps a scolding is the reason. A few years back, I accepted my award, and stood near the stage when a determined gray haired lady accosted a race organizer, “We older runners take racing seriously. We work hard for our times. Why do you stop awards with the 70-74 Age Group? 

And so, today I had the privilege of hugging a kindred spirit, that energetic 84-year-old and congratulating our friend in the wheelchair, in her 90’s. 

This is a community race, but not just the cozy community of Newport Beach runners. People came from Arizona, Alaska and New York. What the race organizers provided was recognition for runners/walkers who love to be out early Saturday morning, moving alongside ocean views and though quiet neighborhoods—a community of competitors from four to ninety-four.

Thursday, February 23, 2017



“Snarky.” That’s what my friend Peggy called  2/4/17 Lazyracer blog entry. I’d emailed Surf City Half Marathon organizers, “I’m flattened by fever, chills, headache…I’ve placed in your last 5 events.”  I asked refund of the $147 paid for the February 5th race. NOPE. Not even “Sorry.” “They don’t care about me and I don’t care about them.”

Five feverish days—freezing under piles of blankets are over! 
Saturday, collapsing into a nap, I awoke, recovered. “I can race,” I said.

Time healed the body, but the brain? Scrambled! Overslept through Saturday class; screwed up date of a cherished friend’s birthday party, missing it. Arriving at the race, my friend, Evelyne, pointed to my running shoes. “Where’s your timing chip? Forgot it, flunking “elementary race-prep.”

Got a new chip. Lined up with 40,000 other lunatics who’d paid $140+ to run along Pacific Coast Highway, Super Bowl Sunday morning.

I know this racecourse, my sixth Surf City. I’d spent the last weeks, rolling into bed, rehearsing every step—a nightly visual video. The rhythmic remembrance of footfalls on asphalt is relaxing, meditative, sleep inducing.

In running, the brain’s importance matches the feet. As a beginning racer, I longed for each mile marker, worrying over the distant finish. Now, retreating to my nightly fantasy run, I “go interior,” allowing feet to carry me, sweeping away emotional resistance.  

Also, strong parental messages of welcome acceptance of fellow humans are hallmarks of my everyday life. But the devil takes over when racing. “Get a haircut,” I snarl, as the guy with dredlocks passes. “Out of my way, weirdo,” I think, dodging around a lumbering runner. Reading a shirt: “I Run Because I Like Beer,” I whisper nastily, “You look like it.”

Being quietly cruel steals energy from forward motion, so my rule is, “Don’t look at people/read shirts.” Instead, I repeat, “Fast, Fast, Fast!”  Though I look at the road ahead, my radar hones in on “senior” female runners. I accelerate past.

So 7:30 this morning, pressed between runners—all shapes and heights, I awaited the start. Our moose-horn sounded, bidding me to move stiff legs, knocking against moist marine air.

Struggling though that first long mile, I piled up three more rapidly, leaving Pacific City, Main Street, PCH stores, beachfront condos. Ran along the oilfield fence, watching my timing device. A pace of  ten-and-a-half minute miles slow to 11:50 then 12. RUN!, I commanded, turning up Seapoint, the race’s only hill. "Faster." “Nothing hurts, you’re not tired.” 

Working hard to ignore a port-o-potty visit, I thought, “I can wait til the finish.” But could not—jumped in. 

Never before needing a potty stop, I lost minutes. However, a world of relief opened as I worked to regain time lost.

Salty ocean smell rewarded as we crossed the bridge over Bolsa Chica Estuary..
Approaching the Mile 8 turn-around, I was chagrinned. The expensive race ticket didn't include a chip reader at the turn. I've experienced cheaters in my age group who didn’t run the entire race. 

Bringing it on home, not tired, I raced, hard. A gray haired lady sent me into a sprint at Mile 11. Friends yelling, “Carrie!” at Mile 13 motivated a surge to the finish.

My sick week? My daughter’s scolding text sums up the reasonable question, “What are you doing racing? You’re still recovering!” 
Never felt weak, never had that dreadful dead-legged syndrome. I’ll go with my brother’s comment, “Comes a time when you get better by getting out.” Time was today.

And here is why I sat down to write:  A feeling of gratitude overrides the hard racing effort, previous illness, hostile responses to runners, profit-making marathon organizations. Today, my slowest half marathon, is the first time I have not made the top three in dozens of races. Potty stop put me in fourth, two and a half minutes behind third. However, my memory of the race is infused with light and joy and an acknowledgement of my mastery of the distance. 

I am so lucky to be capable of picking myself up and racing 13.1 miles. At 73, post flu, I did it.  I did it smiling. That is the point.

Saturday, February 4, 2017


I bought a $145 Surf City Half Marathon entry.

I’ve been flattened by fever, chills, headache, ETC.
Last time I was sick was….so far back I can’t remember. 
So, bad timing collided with a 13.1 mile race effort. 

Yeah, I signed their disclaimer. 

However, as I wrote them, I’ve run five Surf Cities, formerly Huntington Beach Half marathons. I’ve placed in the top three every single time, first place, twice.

Wouldn’t you call that a loyal competitor? Even a serious competitor? 

And why wouldn’t they, at the very least, transfer the $145 fee to next year’s race? Nope.

It would make goodwill for their organization if they would step forward with some refund of their exorbitant $145 fee. 

They don’t care and I don’t care for them.