April 5th marked something big: my first Grand Prix race back with Whirlaway after more than ten years away. To be honest, I wasn’t just showing up to a 15K—I was stepping back into a world that had once felt like home, but now felt both familiar and foreign. The race atmosphere at a GP event hits differently, and I’d forgotten just how much. The buzz, the team, the old faces, the fast legs—it brought back a flood of emotions.
I had a plan for this day. After everything—surgeries, setbacks, and slow rebuilds—I wasn’t there to prove anything. I just wanted to run smart: go out slow, find a rhythm, and finish strong. Nothing fancy. I even tucked myself back in the middle of the pack at the start to make sure I stuck to that strategy.
The announcer let us know that the gun was going to go off in three minutes. That’s when I realized…I never pinned on my race number. It was still in my backpack. In the gym. On the bleachers.
And there were three minutes to go until the start.
Panic mode. I yelled to Dave K—Whirlaway’s team leader—that I forgot my number. He flagged down the race timer, who somehow cared enough to help this old lady out. I was embarrassed and mortified to have drawn any attention to myself.
Their solution? They placed me right on the front line of the race so they could clock me from the gun. Forget blending into the crowd—suddenly, I was toe-to-toe with the region’s fastest runners, and my whole “ease into it” plan went up in smoke.
My first mile? 6:50. I had planned for 7:45–7:50. So much for starting slow.
But here’s the thing—I didn’t implode. I didn’t panic. I adjusted, and I ran. That might sound small, but for me, it was huge. After so many years of not trusting my body, of wondering if I could ever come back, I ran strong after a chaotic start. I didn’t fall apart. I proved something to myself that day.
And it gets better. Around the 9-mile mark, less than a half mile from the finish, there was Dave —standing on the side of the road, holding my race bib in the air. He had gone back into the gym, found my backpack in a sea of bags, and brought my number out to me so I could cross the line holding it up.
So much for flying under the radar.
I felt like such a moron—but also, I felt alive. Like I belonged again. Like maybe, just maybe, the next chapter isn’t just about surviving—it’s about showing up, laughing at the chaos, and still finding strength in the mess.
So here’s to the first of many more races with my team. And maybe next time, I’ll remember my bib.
Leave a Reply