Pefect In Pink?

Real or Fake

Big or Small

Today I raced to save them all!

It's a race I've done every year, for years and years, with the exception of my pregnant years, those were years where racing 3.2 miles was suspended.

The scene plays out the same each year.  Getting out of bed early to throw on the clothes that I most likely laid out the night before:

Pink shirt-check

Crazy accessory (this year is was giant star-shaped-pink-rimmed-sun glasses)-check

Stop watch-check

Ponytail-check

Kiss to the husband and children who will be showing up to cheer me on later-check

Each year as I approach the venue I am guilty (along with several hundred more people) of violating various traffic and parking laws.  I would just like to give a shout out to the Salt Lake City Police Department for looking the other way and never ticketing or towing my car, or anyone elses for that matter.

Once parking is secured (always an adventure) and my key creatively hidden, I begin the sometimes ridiculously long trek to the appointed meeting place.  It's the same spot every year, the planter box in front of the old Fort Union station.

The backdrop is always the same as I stand waiting for my "racing sisters".  Hundreds...no, thousands of people all wearing the same shirt.  Each crowd is punctuated with individuals exhibiting a bit more flare for the dramatic; for those it's tutus, crazy hats, wigs, and the occasional crazy socks or bra.   Children still in their pajamas as "Dad" was in charge of dressing them this morning, strollers that would stretch the length of the valley if lined up end to end and the pressed cell phone conversations as people try to "meet up" in a crowd bordering 20,000 people.

And then there's the laughter.

Friends squealing in pain as their running mate sticks them with the pin they are using to attach their racing bib.  Strangers laughing with other strangers at shirts that say things like, "Bippity, boppity, BOOBS", "Of course these things aren't real, my real ones tried to kill me", "Breast friends", "Save second base",  and "Racing to save Debbie's Double DD's".  The jokes about age and health and how any number of things may or may not contribute to the success or failure to complete today's race for the cure.  It's all so real, so familiar...a spectacle that plays out in cities across America.

And then there's the sadness.

It's rare to see actual tears, it's more of a soberness that strikes you when you least expect.  The young kids with pictures of a beautiful woman on their t-shirt that includes the phrase "In memory of..." printed across the top.  The quietness of the tulips that bloom every year.  Memorial Day is coming later this month.  Reality strikes as I consider that many of these same people will be decorating the graves of their "beloved" mothers, sisters, grandmothers with similar flowers.  The women with the scarves, hats, and other adornments covering their balding heads.  The husbands...widowers?

Somehow, in all the chaos, thousands of us manage to swarm the starting line, the music blares, there are some vague attempts at warming up, and the usual "excuse me's" as everyone tries to find a spot that will result in the least amount of jostling once the final "Go!" is shouted.  This year was no different.  A slow moving start finally gives way to a healthy trot which eventually evolves into my version of running.  All of us tend to zig zag around our contemporaries as we put all of our effort into staying upright and all together.

The sound of all those feet striking pavement is invigorating...it doesn't last.

We hit the 2-mile marker.  We've started up a slight incline and the water station seems like it was a long time ago.  I have asthma and by about 2 and a half miles my lungs are protesting my choice of activity this morning.  Just in front of me is a woman in a hot pink shirt.  The shirt is significant as only survivors wear that color; her badge of honor.  In a vain attempt to take my mind off of the small child standing on my chest I read the bib attached to the back of her shirt.  7 years!  7 years she's been cancer free, I bring it to the attention of my counter parts and pat her back in encouragement.  

The small child has now progressed to a 16-year-old and I am HATING this race.  

However, there is always hind sight.  It's hind sight that has me writing this now. The advantage that retrospection can afford someone like me is to look back and do a serious "race assessment".  Sure I was hurting, and that last mile was brutal, but it wasn't as brutal as breast cancer.  It wasn't as brutal as sitting in a sterile room with a practical stranger and getting a diagnoses that, no matter what, will change your life.  It wasn't as brutal as watching your husband fall apart when you share the news with him and then have to relive that pain as you explain it all to your family, your friends, and your co-workers.  It wasn't as brutal as the awkwardness that would follow this disclosure as people don't know what to say or how to treat you now.  It wasn't as brutal as trying not to think about your children growing up without a mother, and how you just won't think about that...you just can't.  It wasn't as brutal as the time you'll spend waiting for news, waiting for test results, waiting, waiting; cancer is waiting.  No, now that I think about it, it wasn't that bad at all.  I'll take my broken lungs, my healthy legs and my strong mind and yes...

I'll be back next year.  And we'll all continue the fight, what other choice do we have?