I’d like to thank the city for orchestrating the Menifee Half-Marathon and 5K race on Sunday, May 19. I ran…no, wait a minute…I began jogging 13.1 miles at a snail’s pace, breathlessly plodding through the bucolic, east side of this fabulous city. I’m familiar with the Antelope-Garbani-Briggs-Holland Road route by virtue of occasionally pedaling my mountain bike across the quiet, scenic thoroughfares. Stretching across the vast, back-forty of Menifee, the paved and dirt roads always beckon a two-wheeled journey. I’ve rested my bike at the base of many a knobby, path-carved hill, climbing topside to capture landscape photos, to meditate or to bask in the extraordinary views. Yes, on Race Day, I was very familiar with the route, BUT, I was on foot. The journey intuitively felt long and challenging. I suppose that marathons are inherently grueling. In the distance, I could see the TRUE ATHLETES leading a sea of people. In this case, two, strapping young soldiers (as evidenced by physique and hair cut) and a beautiful, blonde, young woman. Each of the soldiers carried a wooden pole with an American flag attached near the top. High above their proud faces, the red, white and blue wildly fluttered in the breeze created by their respective cadence, diffusing stalwart patriotism for miles. Three observations crossed my mind while I traversed Antelope to Scott Road: I MIGHT catch up to them (it could happen); I’m really running slowly and I forgot my headset. Thus, I could hear passing conversations between pairs of runners sharing the details of their motivation, their training, their peak heart rate and the like. Between miles three and four, it became very, very quiet, save for the posts of cheerleading water tenders intermittently echoing behind and in front of me. I maintained a nice, eastbound pace for a race on the undulating Garbani Road. I couldn’t see over one, 30-degree incline, so I focused on the natural surroundings and the song in my head: “Fergalicious”. All of the sudden, Old Glory was floating toward me, complete with the blurring heat rising from the asphalt and the chattering birds instantly scattering. A heralding gust of wind blew fine dust all around, moving moist strands of hair from my face. Seconds later, I could see the wooden pole; then the silhouette of a young, strapping, focused soldier. I could feel his overwhelming pride and staunch determination, noting his stronghold grip. As our opposite paths drew near, he remained on task, looking straight ahead through his shades, holding the flag and running as though someone else’s life depended on its safe delivery. It was like watching a scene in a spellbinding movie. I saluted as he stealthily passed by in a blink of my eye. I said nothing, though I wanted to loudly cheer him onward. Moving onward and over the next incline, I passed by the remaining strapping soldier carrying the other flag. He was accompanied by a younger, male protégé. Again, I saluted as I passed, offering encouragement. The youngest appeared fatigued, but resolute. They were very close to finishing the race in about two hours (if I’m not mistaken). A few minutes later, I saluted the beautiful, blonde, young woman, too, just because she was ALL THAT and not far behind the men on the home stretch. Catching my breath around mile seven, I momentarily hid in one of the porta-cubicles. Of course, I couldn’t have hidden elsewhere along the open, visibly marked route because it was so well-monitored by Menifee PD, the Sheriff’s officers and innumerable, friendly volunteers. I didn’t want a moment’s rest to be mistaken for an injury, nor utter surrender. However, I was utterly tempted to stick my thumb out and hitch a ride from the motorcycle officer around mile eight, but then the cheerleading water tenders refreshed my thirsty spirit. “Wait until you see the medallion! Go and get it!” one of the young girls chanted, jumping up and down as she handed me a bottle of ice cold water. So, I kept moving (barely) forward. The ONLY reason I PARTICIPATE (not compete) in half-marathons is to obtain the medallion. My race times hover around three to four hours. I also love the amazing volunteers. Their help is immeasurable. Their encouragement is indispensable. I can’t believe they wait until the last person crosses the finish line – even if it takes all day. The last mile is always a killer: so close, but so far away for my blistered tootsies and my aching back. Such a blessing when I wobbled over the finish line at MSJC, grabbing the medallion and plopping under the nearest, shady tree. The grass was so cooling and fluffy, embracing my sweltering body. I heard a man’s voice calling out: “Lynda! Lynda! Where are you?” “I’m over here,” I yelled, flat on my back, mumbling profanity, drenched in sweat and writhing in excruciating pain from the sudden onset of leg and foot cramps. “You won! You won second place in your division,” the voice said, growing closer. You’ve got to be kidding. The man appeared, standing over me like an angelic shadow, handing me a plaque lauding the win. I thought FINISHING the race was accomplishment enough. “Are you okay? The ambulance is still here,” the man said, concerned. “I’m good. Thanks, so much,” I said, rolling around in the grass, holding my right leg in the air. I walked to the college from my home for the start of the race, but I didn’t have the strength to walk another mile afterward. I called my neighbor, Dotty, who gave me a ride, bless her heart. Sharing my pseudo-adventure with her on the way home, I spoke of the people I met and observed. “I placed second-to-the-last, overall,” I said to Dotty. “How cool is this?” I asked, pulling out the wonderful plaque. “No guts, no glory,” she answered. We both laughed. While I’m writing of glory and pride, I offer one more salute to our nation’s fallen soldiers on this Memorial Day.
