Braveheart 5-K

Only one week after those tough hills in Asheville, Martha decided she wanted to run some tough hills in Franklin at the Braveheart 5-K.  I recover more slowly than she does these days, but I agreed to give it a try, too, and I was glad I did.

We met Vicki and Art Heller - Vicki had been telling Martha about the race - and we all lined up on Main Street (which I think was the only level part of the course), 72 runners in all.  These smaller races can often be more enjoyable than a large one with jostling runners and Kenyans taking the top awards.  In the end, we all had good races, including Vicki, who came up behind Martha and then passed her on the fast downhill just before turning on Main Street to the finish line.  Had Martha not run a half marathon only a week before, I am confident she would have beaten her handily.  A little friendly competition is a healthy thing among runners, and I look forward to seeing what happens the next time these two women compete together.  I remember that several years ago I was pretty evenly matched with my friend Skip Taylor; he would finish a second or two ahead of me in one race, and then a second or two behind me in another.  And we both ran better because of it.

As for myself, I felt the pull of those hills pretty early in the race, and finished some five minutes behind both of these women, although I was proud of not stopping on any of the hills, even that long climb up Bidwell Street.  And I felt not a twinge from that injured knee.  It was a nice morning for a run and the course was scenic, climbing under the shade of magnolia trees, and starting and finishing on Main Street where the Scottish Heritage Festival was underway.  Bagpipes greeted us as we came in to the finish, and there were Tartans and kilts everywhere.  "Sons & daughters of Scotland! I am William Wallace!" the race website declares.

We were surprised when the overall winner, 25-year-old local Franklin runner Canyon Woodard (17:20), was knighted in a very moving ceremony.  He was asked to kneel on a little stool, and elders dressed in their tartans recited the historic words from the knighting ceremony and presented him with an impressive sword.

There was a time in my life when I might have finished toward the front of a small race like this one, and would have certainly enjoyed wielding that gleaming sword.  Now I don't think I could have risen from the kneeling-stool.