Every summer my family would go to Mount Shasta, California, to participate in a 5-mile freedom run. The course was nestled at the base of the mountain, and the run begins before the 100-degree, dry temperatures set in.
I was 20 at the time and thought my youth would carry me across the finish line, so I challenged my dad that I could beat him.
The race began with a subtle downhill grade that would lead any runner to believe they were skilled. I kept pace with my dad and stopped fully at the first water table, while most runners grabbed a cup and kept running. After three cups I began to run again.
My shorts, terribly old, were beginning to fall down. The elasticity was completely gone. I ran for a while holding my shorts up, but this was not a long-term fix.
Thinking on my feet, literally, I used the bottom two safety pins from my race bib to attach the top of my shorts to the bottom of my sports bra. I continued to run marveling at my brilliance. The scorching sun appeared, and I was dripping in minutes.
The pace I was keeping dropped to a dragging jog that encouraged walkers to pass me. The runners became fewer. Having never run this course before, I began to depend on the signs to direct me.
Then I had the sudden urge to use the restroom. Stopping at every water table to drink three or four cups of water probably wasn’t the best idea. I turned a corner and saw this beautiful church that had two Porta Potty toilets in front of it — clearly a gift from God.
I ran up the hill and swung open the door and proceeded to drop my shorts and pee, only forgetting that my shorts were pinned to my sports bra. But the wheels were already in motion, so I just flat-out peed my pants. You can do a lot of soul searching in a moment like this, and I must have been daydreaming because the church bells rang and I jolted up and quickly bolted out of the potty. Thankfully, I was wearing black shorts so there was no evidence of my accident.
As I rejoined the course, I didn’t see anyone. This was concerning so I ran as fast as I could and found another water table. This time I splashed three cups all over my body, including my shorts.
Soon I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever be reunited with my family again.
Then I see a man about 100 yards ahead of me, and I decide that if I can beat him, all is not lost. I ran up the hill with my last bit of energy. I glanced over at him, and he’s smiling. Clearly he’s lost it because this whole idea of running in July is not amusing. I reached the top of the last hill and ran through the town and found the final 50 yards were adorned with red, white and blue. People are giving me concerning looks as most everyone finished already.
But I crossed the finish line knowing that old dude was still coming.
“What happened to you?” my dad asked. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I whispered.
A few minutes later, the man I passed was coming down the final stretch. Suddenly people began to congregate around the finish line, more balloons appeared and cheers erupted. I’m thinking, “I just did that and no one cared! I beat this guy!” My dad leaned over through clapping hands and said, “Can you believe this guy had double hip replacement surgery only 5 months ago? Incredible.”
You would think the shame of beating a man with artificial bones in his body would push me further down the hole of embarrassment that I was inhabiting, but it didn’t. Because the truth is, I beat him, and that’s all that matters.
— Kostrzewa lives in New Orleans
Advocate readers may submit stories of about 500 words to The Human Condition at features@theadvocate.com. There is no payment, and stories will be edited. Authors should include their city of residence, and, if writing about yourself, a photo.
