Chapter Forty Six; Run Rednecks, Run!

Someone tell me how I ended up on a prairie road in the middle of nowhere on a sticky July morning dodging rocks and badger holes and why at some point I thought this sounded like a fun and good idea.

Not a good idea.

And not even in the fun universe.

More like planet of torture.

Thus began my adventure in my hometown of Reduce Speed, Rural America, for the village’s 125th celebration. Part of which was my first ever 5K run, which just so happened to take place in a desolate long-forgotten corner of the prairie.

The t-shirts for the event proclaimed, “Still Great in 2008.” But let’s be honest, for this little Midwestern speck the motto should have been, “Little Town on Life Support.” As honestly, it is certainly no secret that this whole shebang is just one big excuse to throw a party before someone finds the plug and yanks it. (i.e. When the one business left in operation, the bar on main street, runs out of booze.)

Because I mean really. When there’s more people in the cemetery than in the phone book? That tells ya a little somethin'.

The future is not bright. Put away the shades.

And so here I am. As one of the dutiful Dakota daughters, I show up for the funeral.

Ah-hem.

I mean, celebration.

But at the moment I am certain the only thing I am going to find to rejoice about is locating the end of this ancient dirt path and crossing the finish line into alumni glory.

The organized agony started out smooth enough on a well-worn gravel road. When some old man hollered, "Go!" I stuck with the pack (if you can call about forty geezers and a couple teenagers a pack) for a good mile. Eventually, people started dropping off faster than the town’s aging population.

Geez, people. Anyone else exercise past the age of 30 besides me?

Apparently not.

There was a ton of huffing and puffing going on around me.

I was starting to feel a little good about this.

The one other family member I’d brought along to represent our redneck clan was my 17-year-old cousin from the east coast. He is a track star out there. I hadn’t seen him since he was a baby, but when I learned he actually had some running talent, I dragged his hung over butt (he’s a teen, any excuse to party is an excuse to party end of story) out of bed, forced him into some borrowed Nike shoes I’d finagled from an old classmate of mine and planted him at the starting line.

I wasn’t sure if he would actually finish the race or just start throwing up at mile two but I figured if he wanted to come all the way out to the sticks, I was going to make him see them up close.

Shortly after the start I lost sight of him up ahead. And when I didn’t see any vomit alongside the road I figured he was hanging in there alright.

About a half mile in I passed an old high school rival of mine.

Sweet.

The whole thing felt like a scene from Little House on the Prairie so much I honestly had to fight the urge to yell over my shoulder, “Eat my dust, Nellie Olson!”

Shortly after that affirming moment is when things started to go down hill.

Literally.

Because I was tripping down some kind of steep dirt embankment (Who plotted this course? Some senile founding father who obviously had no intention of actually running it is my guess.) The route then quickly transformed from gravel to an archaic grassy obstacle course that I am sure was last utilized for transportation in Roman times by a lost nomadic Indian tribe.

I soon forget about the fact that I am running a race and instead focus on the fact that I am now running through long grass at the height of wood tick season.

I tell you. Nothing is more motivating than inner dialogue like, “I am gonna get ticks! I am gonna get ticks! I am gonna get ticks!” if you are looking to shave a good minute off your time.

Possibly a minute and a half.

Let’s just say I was bookin’ it.

Ew.

The prehistoric trail/blood sucking bug festival soon gave way to a new gravel road and the finish line was finally in sight.

The sun beat down and I was now passing a couple more people. I also came to the realization that if I just ran faster the suffering would soon be over. I picked up the pace, put the iPod to ACDC, (Hells Bells, anyone?) and rounded the corner back into town where my mom and youngest daughter were screaming for my arrival at the finish.

One full sprint later I was dripping with sweat and downing cold water.

Sweet hillbilly horray, I had survived!

My time was not fantastic, but I was soon informed that it was good enough to land me in 1st place in the old hag division, rock on! But even better, I soon learned that my drunken east coast cuz had smoked the hometown track star by at least a full minute and won the whole damn race.

Holy borrowed tennis shoes, Batman!

As we headed back to the ranch to show off our medals to the kinfolk, I realized that maybe this hadn’t been such a bad idea after all. After all, this little town had been the backdrop for my childhood and adolescence. It had served me well, and I was honored to show up and pay my sweaty respects.

But most importnatly, this race provided quite a metaphor for my recent life's journey. After all, the divorce road I traveled this year certainly contained its share of obstacles. But in the end, the road eventually smoothed out, enabling me to not only find my stride but many unexpected victories along the way as well.

The town may be on its way out, but this former resident is nowhere near her finish line.

Because if anyone is “Still Great in 2008.”

Yeah.

That would be me.