“So, we’re making this a tradition, huh?” 

Em’s reply when asked if she wanted signed up for the New Year’s Day Resolution 5K we ran last year.

“Yes … a tradition!” I enthused.

To be clear, she detests running. Didn’t have her newer tennis shoes at home. Had to borrow my old hoodie. 

When Peter asked her goal for race day, she answered: “To not cry the entire time.”

“Me too!” I replied, holding up a hi-5 which she promptly ignored.

In this year’s sequel, I took note of a few differences from our maiden voyage. 

For starters we arrived early. 

In the 23 years I’ve been a parent, we’ve never been early for anything. 

Like, ever. 

We had ample time to get our bibs, pee, stretch. 

I actually peed a second time …  because I knew I may never be this early again. 

To be fair, last year was a totally spur of the moment affair. In a spasm of poor decision-making, I signed us up on New Year’s Eve — the day before the race — whilst slightly north of my second Moscow Mule of the evening. Was genuinely surprised they both said yes. It was their first 5K.

This year was Em’s second.  

Her brother, on the other hand …. 

Peter’s actually taken a keen interest in running over the past year. Much more serious than mine. Minds his times and distances. Actually had a New Year’s Race Day goal in mind. 

Meanwhile, I held fast(-ish) to mine from last year: not puking.

With the aforethought that comes with pre-planning, I strategically managed my New Year’s Eve race prep. 

Stayed away from Moscow Mules. 

Opted for margaritas instead.  

Was coming off an uneven night’s sleep when we took our place among the mass of humanity at the starting line. Didn’t feel like I had much in the tank. 

So I was grateful to find a person shortly after the start to hitch my wagon to, so to speak. From the back, the guy looked middled-aged and mis-matched …  seemed to be wearing a collared shirt over another shirt (?), along with shorts, dark socks and a ballcap. Temperature was in the 30s, which made his incongruous ensemble read as either brazen or ironic — both of which I found oddly appealing. 

He seemed like a poorly informed tourist from another country trying too hard to blend in … or exactly how I’ve felt in every race I’ve ever participated in. 

His pace was reasonable, though. Determined without trying to prove too much … which, I reminded myself, was the same criteria I used for picking my middle school cologne. 

Managed to keep him in my sights the first mile. The trail was puddled in places, which made it a little challenging for me to keep up, but not too off-putting. 

After I hit the mid-point turnaround, I was greeted by a winter wind bent on smacking me in the face the whole rest of the way (rude). Over the second mile, my pacer lengthened his lead, but I did my best to keep from falling too far behind. 

I find once one crests a race’s midpoint, one’s playlist becomes really important. You need that voice in your head to take your mind away from the realization that, if it wasn’t for your poor decision-making, you could be home right now under a weighted blanket on the couch, binge-watching Murder She Wrote while sipping hot cocoa. 

My playlist was on shuffle, so up popped a slow ballad I love by a melancholic Pittsburgh band from the 90’s, whose singer began to croon, “This world will be the death of me,” which convinced me I should maybe outsource the curation of my hype music to the algorithms.  

Stole a glance down at my phone to hit skip, trading “… satchel full of broken hopes … ” (wtf?) for “Heroes” by Bowie (universe balance = restored), and noticed I had just under a half-mile left. Took a quick inventory of my legs, breath and bowels and, confirming stasis, looked up and noticed I’d gotten a little closer to Dark Sock Ironic Collar Guy.

This is the point in the proceedings where one starts thinking about one’s finishing kick, which for me, consists of trying not to giggle slash pee oneself.

The lesson of the TBPPD (Tall Bearded Prematurely Peaking Dude) from a year ago slow-jogged through my mind as I considered my strategy. The previous night’s margaritas suggested … a conservative approach. 

So I waited ’til the three mile mark, and then, you know, called down to engineering to fire up the old warp core. 

Once engaged I passed DSICG with all the urgency of a middle-aged man on the cusp of the morning’s third pee …  in the process resisting the temptation to look over my shoulder to see if my backdraft caused the collar on his shirt to at all flutter.

Hubris eventually comes for us all.

Pushed as hard as I could as I crossed the finish line. 

But after catching my breath on the other side, I sought out my pacer. 

“Excuse me, sir,” I called out. 

He turned around, whereupon I noticed that (a.) he was a bit older than me, and (b.) his collar was actually a neck-warming device (pro move). I also saw the front of his shirt for the first time, which commemorated a Boston Marathon he’d previously conquered decades ago. 

Respect.

I congratulated him on running a great race. Told him he was my North Star, and thanked him accordingly. 

He confessed he hadn’t run in two months, so wasn’t sure what his body was going to give him. From where I stood, he did more than OK.  

I sought out Peter and Em in the post-race hubub, and we headed back indoors to warm up and so Peter could check out the results. 

He found his name on the printout they taped to the wall by the awards table. Finished top 25, third in his age group, shaving a whopping two minutes-plus per mile from a year ago. 

What a difference a year can make. 

So we hung around for the awards. 

They went oldest to youngest, announcing the winners in the 70-and-above category first. 

A familiar figure walked up to claim first place.

Dark socks. Shorts.  

Dude was in his 70s. 

Um … brazen, it turns out. 

As far as North’s Stars go, I chose wisely. 

Probably went home and spent the afternoon chopping wood. 

Needless to say, I found the experience of smoking a stone cold septuagenarian down the home stretch very satisfying. 

We waited through the other age groups until they got to the 20-29s. 

Announced females first. 

When we heard third place finished just above 30 minutes, Em and I had the same thought.

She turned to me, “Wait, if she was third … then I might have ….”

We were both giggling by the time she finished the sentence, just as they were calling her name for winning her age group.

In the ironic category. 

I had a fresh hi-5 waiting for her by the time she returned to her seat … which she promptly ignored.

I informed her that she was now bound by honor to come back next year and defend her crown.

Ah … traditions.