BANG!

I can hear the echo of the starting gun in my head.

And they’re off, the runners sprinting away from the starting line.

The race is underway, the 46th City of Roses Half Marathon.

I’m missing it this year.

I have perfectly good reasons, coupled with excuses.

Not enough time on my feet.

I weigh too much.

I didn’t do enough stretching or strength training.

All of that adds up to a potential injury, one I’m not willing to risk because I love running too much to do that to myself.

So I’m sitting this one out.

And it’s bothering me a lot more than I thought it would.

Part of that is disappointment in my physical condition. I know what my body is capable of doing. I’ve run ultramarathons. I’ve run farther than 13.1 miles when my legs were jelly, my body physically begging me to stop. Now I’m missing out, watching other runners do something I know I’m capable of doing.

Just not this year.

For me, the City of Roses carries something very few people can understand.

I ran this race in 2020, exactly two weeks after Jude died.

Back then, running wasn’t about my pace or getting another medal. Like it or not, the grief came with me while I ran.

Peacocks reside at Cape County Memorial Park, a few feet from where we buried our thirteen-year-old son. They became part of my grief, part of the collage of images you gather when you’re trying to hold onto every memory after your child dies. Eventually, I had a peacock tattooed on my arm.

I’m staring at the tattoo now, remembering Jude.

That’s why sitting out feels a lot heavier than just missing one race.

Running never fixed anything for me. But it did teach me that mile after mile, I could keep moving while carrying all of it. Somehow, that made things a little easier.

Doing hard things usually does.

That’s what I miss.

The hard stuff.

Sometimes you walk. Sometimes you hurt. Sometimes you sit one out.

Then you come back, stronger because you’re ready.

That’s where I am this morning.

I’m working on losing the weight. I’m moving again, albeit slowly, rebuilding what I’ve let slip. There’s another starting line out there, including the Aslinger Ultramarathon, where I believe I have another fifty miles in me.

Today, though, I’ll let myself grieve the race I’m not running. I’ll watch people faster and stronger than me cross the finish line.

And then I’ll get back to work.

Because I’ve learned something from all those miles, including the ones I ran when my heart was broken.

Sitting one out isn’t quitting.

I’ll see you next year.