Run Mitchells Run!

I love my mother. She sometimes has an odd idea of family ‘fun’, but I love her. A couple years ago my brother, sister and I thought it would be a good idea to have a friendly 10 km challenge and signed up for the Lindsay Milk Run. Bronze (loser) was supposed to take the gold and silver (winners) out for dinner. Poor Soul and I are still waiting for our meal.

Memories, much like the pain of lactic acid, fade over time. This year, mom proposed that the family (herself excluded) run again for the much coveted number one spot on her speed dial. It didn’t take many smack-talk e-mails back and forth before we all found ourselves registered for the Highland Games 10km. My niece, nephew and Little Lord Fauntleroy also got roped into it this time around.

We all camped out at my parents the night before the big race and walked to the course in the morning. At the start of the race, I thought what a beautiful day it was and a great course we were on. Each step of the way I thanked Visa for my new shoes. My iPod kept me company for the first 5 km or so, and I planned to sprint the last kilometer listening to “Girlfriend”. At kilometer 8, I was still thankful for my shoes but found it too hot. I craved the shade as I ran under trees and cursed having to lug my ever so heavy iPod.

Around the 7 km mark we found ourselves running past Auntie Karen’s and Uncle Duck’s. They were there to cheer us on and snap pictures as we ran. We all look relatively happy to be running except for Schweener boy who is a little red in the face. A closer review of one picture of me though gives a clue as to why I was called ‘queer’ earlier this summer. Who waves like that? I mean really. Queer indeed.

In the end, I was proud of myself for finishing the race without stopping and beating my brother – yet again. Fauntleroy is clearly not a member of the family as he ran like a gazelle and was enjoying a cool drink by the time any of us crossed the line.

Who won and who lost is not important, what is important is that I was not the last one across the line. Mark. What, who said that?

Dad apparently felt a little left out of this family bonding time and has secretly started to train for next years race. I think brother Mark better get some practice himself. Being beat by your 14 year old daughter is one thing but having a senior beat you too. Actually, you know what, don’t practice. That is all good ammunition for the post run roast!