another race

This morning, my sister ran her first race in eternities. There were times, back in middle school when mud was still sticky and rain fell in sheets throughout spring, when she ran cross-country on occasion. There were regular meets between the schools in our town and she was up there with the best. Maybe I'm imagining this. Sometimes I remember that I was up there with the best too, but that I'm imagining for sure.

This post is not about me because my sister ran a 10k this morning. The race was held on the day of, and as part of, the Oberelbe-Marathon, which I would call my favorite marathon, if such a thing could exist. But only a pathologically twisted individual would combine the words favorite and marathon. I, in contrast, like refer to it as a particularly benign form of self-inflicted torture that leads to something slightly less than absolutely misery.

My sister ran the mini-marathon, a peaceful stroll of 3.7 km, last year and did well. Then she decided to do better, and more, the following year, and got somewhat serious about it, taking to the woods where she lives and tracking herself, time and distance. She could have taken her iPhone and asked Apple for the data, but they might have refused (proprietary brand management assets or some such thing). Instead, she takes the epitome of geek, a stopwatch that talks to the stars (or at least satellites).

My sister ran a 10k this morning and ate the competition like a grilled sausage. My sister is a vegetarian, but she knows when to compromise her principles. Coming third out of nowhere is such an occasion. Another is a good sausage, a bratwurst cooked up in Thuringia from fine pork, spices and shredded hoofs and heels. She probably ate that during the stroll through town on the day before the race.

With her time she narrowly beat the target I had pulled out of my head (yes!) the night before, a round number that sounded plausible though not exactly trivial to achieve. I'm delighted – and at the same time twitchy. I feel an itch in my left leg. Stories of racing, especially close to home, always give me a kick. Should I maybe not have retired after all? But this post is not about me.