I have not run a race in six months, since the Octoberfest 5-K in Walhalla on October 19. Since that race, I was in Italy in November for five weeks and did next to no running (although a great deal of walking). And following a hard fall on February 14 that fractured three ribs, and banged up a knee in ways still to be determined by my orthopedic doctor, I went another five weeks without running. Recovery has been slow, but I signed up for this small race in Pickens, South Carolina, a month ago because I knew I needed to have a specific goal.
It was a perfect day for a race – overcast, temperatures in the 60s, and a nice shady course beginning and ending at the Doodle Park, where there was a train depot and exhibit. The Park is at one end of the Doodle Trail, a 7.5-mile rails-to-trails greenway between Easley and Pickens, wide, asphalt-paved, with an easy grade, built on the bed of the so-called Doodle Line. The railroad used to run between the two cities and was named that because the freight engine could not be turned around so had to run backwards from Easley to Pickens, looking like a “doodlebug” according to a sign posted at the depot. I learned that a “doodle” is “said to have derived from the insect-like appearance of the units, as well as the slow speeds at which they would doddle or ‘doodle’ down the tracks.”
It was an appropriate name for this old runner, running at slow speeds due to recent injury and as a result being woefully out of shape, who lined up with two hundred other runners to run a course that was surprisingly steep for the first two miles. Instead of the Doodle Trail, we began on city streets that climbed uphill through suburban Pickens and then out into the countryside, finally turning to pick up the Doodle Trail in the final mile, the most pleasant part of the run.
I enjoyed myself, as usual, by chatting with the other runners, including two young women I was leap-frogging with who kept taking walking breaks so that I would pass them, then they would pass me.. The younger of the two said if was only her second race. I told them it was my 220th race. My legs were feeling heavier and heavier, and it turned out that the first mile, mostly uphill, was my fastest. But neither of my knees hurt, which was something of a surprise and a piece of information to relay to my orthopedic doctor when I see her next Tuesday.
I did not expect to place in my age group – first place was taken by another 76-year-old man, a short, wiry veteran who ran an amazing 26:33. The last time I ran that fast in a 5-K was in 2013 (when he was probably running sub-20). Still, the finish line is always a reward, and I was grateful once again merely to finish, to attain another goal, on such a beautiful morning where the azaleas were blooming and the petals of flowering trees were spread out on the trail underfoot.
Every finisher received a nice wooden award medal, and the first-place age-group winners each received something I had never seen before in a race, a potted azalea plant, which would be a lovely reminder of your victory every spring when it bloomed. We spent the rest of the afternoon walking up and down Main Street past the many tents set up there, enjoying the Azalea Festival and its crafters and vendors, eating lunch at an upstairs window table (sandwich and a nice IPA) while watching festival-goers walking below. The race finishers were easily identifiable by their blue shirts which loudly shouted in huge letters 5-K. But it was a technical shirt, and I never complain about shirts or awards, having been a race director myself for many years.
There was also a good live band playing at the other end of the street in a park, which we sat and listened to for awhile. The lead guitarist was exceptional, and a bit of a showman as well, playing with his teeth and behind his neck on some of the Stevie Ray Vaughan numbers. The sun had come out, and we rambled back through the countryside top-down in our Mini to Clemson, where we stopped for appetizers and margaritas at Tipsy Taco before making our way back up the mountain.
We doddling, doodling old runners like to celebrate even humble victories!
