They Came To Run

Three burly, hairy-legged men walked past us, poking each other with glitter wands and laughing while one tugged repeatedly to hike up his white tutu, color coordinated with the sparkly tutus of the other two.

We followed them.

A small family to the right of us wore kilts with their plaid colored running shoes. We passed another group of women wearing shock-pink Afro wigs, geometric Kiss-like designs painted on their faces. We neared the expansive parking lot that was the gathering place near the start line of our race.

A larger group of women, wearing white t-shirts emblazoned with Bridezillas on the front, adjusted flowing veils that cascaded down the back, past their blue shorts.

A DJ on a large flatbed amped up his patter, yelling into the mike, "Are you ready to RUUMMMMBLLLEE?"  as a Zumba group took the stage and danced to a wild salsa beat. Other runners massaged and stretched muscles while the color packets of vibrantly dyed corn starch, issued to each runner, were already being opened and thrown high into the air, marking runners and spectators alike with a rainbow of shades.

A group of guys, probably in their early 20's, unabashedly hopped and jumped in their white underwear, their hairless chests proclaiming in strong black letters they were the Tidy Whiteys.

A small cluster of people, some I knew, had collected in a semi-circle around a woman wearing a beautiful white wedding dress. She continued speaking as I approached, and looked to be a model for one of the sponsoring vendors. Just as I came to a stop, she pulled up the bottom of her lace and silk gown and revealed bright red running shoes.

She explained, "No, I'm running just like this. I was married for eight years, we had two kids, and then he cheated on me and left us. So I'm running in my wedding dress today!" She punched her fist into the air. Some of the color bombs had already marred the pristine whiteness of the dress, leaving it looking like a tie dyed creation from the 60's.

The 6,200 people amassed near the start line, awaiting the wave they were assigned to run in, stood in anticipation.

My group and I readied ourselves.

Once we hit our strides, our group stretched out and eventually broke off as we each had to navigate the congested running lanes. Trying to not focus too much on the sparkling ocean immediately to our left, I worked instead to keep up my pace and move around and in between those who were running slower.

The rush of adrenaline was undeniable and I checked my timer. I knew I probably should slow down a bit and settled into an easy rhythm. I could see the first color station where clouds of pink puffed up into the air like smoke from a volcano. As I got closer, the pink became deeper and obscured my vision, even as I held my breath while volunteers pelted us all with the intense fuchsia powder.

(This is not me, but this is what it looked like in the color lanes.)



We passed T-heads where boats were moored and tourists walking along the sea wall stopped and gaped as we headed towards the next color station. There we were bombed with green, and then onto a third, where yellow was the hue.

I coughed to clear my lungs from the cornstarch as we hit the halfway point and a policeman directing traffic around us dropped his jaw as two of the Tidy Whitey brigade raced past him.

My lungs worked to pull in more oxygen as we approached the two mile mark  I jumped up on a sidewalk to clear a larger group of people wearing corporate polos who laughed and joked together as they jogged.

The next color stations were manned with people armed with sprayers and liquid color striped us, first pink, then blue and a darker shade of emerald green. The sun was fully alert now and I broke a sweat. I repeatedly took off my sunglasses to clear them of the powder that permeated everything.

At the three mile mark, something long and black immediately in front of me in the road startled me. I thought perhaps it was a wounded cat, but to my great relief it was just a disacrded gorilla wig.

The finish line loomed and we all quickened our step, peals of laughter breaking out. Spectators gathered just beyond the finish line clapped and shouted as we crashed our way through and funneled to the water stations.

(Again, not me, but people everywhere enjoyed the color.)

An older woman, lean with short cropped hair, pushed through the finish line and into the arms of a stooped man with wispy white hair, holding himself upright with a cane. He embraced her, the color from her shirt staining his.

The scorned bride in the now ruined gown raised her water bottle and tapped it with others.

As I looked for my other team members and let the cool water slide down my throat, I moved back to the finish line. One woman, barely visible, walked her way around the final turn. Probably over 400 pounds, she breathed heavily, her hair plastered to her head with sweat. The crowd of spectators picked up their shouts of encouragement and she shuffled her feet faster, eventually breaking into a jog just before the finish line. Just past it and utterly spent, she dropped to her knees with her chest heaving while her friends surrounded her, but she sported a smile so large it threatened to split her face. She gasped out between breaths, "I did it I did it I did it!"

Whether we came to exercise or exorcise, to fit in or stand out, to prove something to others or just to ourselves, we all came to run.

(This is me after I'd already shaken myself off and wiped my face a few times.)

Entertaining Myself While I Run

My Ipod is out of battery, which bodes poorly for me to keep my motivation going during the long run I have planned. That music really helps me to keep my knees pumping, my breathing steady, and my mind off the fact that running is UNCOMFORTABLE in 102 degree heat.

I decide to entertain myself the old fashioned way- with my mind and imagination. I enjoy running through our back pastures (I May Not Dance With Wolves, But I Run With Cows) where there is plenty of room and exquisite peace and quiet.

I love to imagine what things were like in the past, so I start with the very land I am running on. If I move back more than 15,000 years, I am in the ancient sea that was here then. I am running underwater where giant, toothy sea creatures abound. They are too toothy for me, so I quickly jump forward to the next epoch.

Now, there are woolly mammoths, mastodons, and saber- toothed tigers roaming this land. Some of them have even chosen convenient places to die, ensuring their bones are captured and turned into fossils for us to find. I imagine the cows that chase me as I run are actually these behemoths. If I squint just right, they turn into a herd of those hairy creatures pursuing me instead of just confused cows.

Nearing the fourth mile, I am lonely for people. I think of the first humans to occupy this space, a fierce band of indigenous people called the Karankawa. At a time when most Native Americans in this area were under 5 1/2 feet tall, the Karankawa towered over others at an average height of 6 feet. They also coated their bodies from head to toe with mud, so the whites of their eyes were often the only things visible. If this isn't enough to strike a note of fear, the early Spanish explorers soon found out the Karankawa were not just passionate fighters, they were also....CANNIBALS. They've left a few of their arrowheads for me to find.

The whites of their eyes are getting too close, so I move ahead to the white man settling this land. I see the wagons getting stuck in quicksand like mud when they move through after a rain. I see cowboys rounding up vast herds of longhorn cattle for the journey to river boats on the Rio Grande.

I move ahead some more in time and see a young man doing the backbreaking labor of clearing this very brushland to be a farm. I see him, often working with his schoolteacher wife, milking cows, hunting down predatory animals, and building their very own house. They are my grandparents. I pass by that house they built as I as run and smile, as it is now the house I live in with my family.

I near a creek and see three little boys with fishing poles, each trying to be the first with his line in the water. It is my dad and his brothers, enjoying their time together after the chores are done.

Moving on, I can almost feel the rumble in the ground as tractors plow the earth to plant hundreds of acres of cotton and grain. I see a little nine year old girl driving one of those tractors. It's me, proud that I can now plow a furrow as straight as anyone (almost).

I see by my watch my run is almost over. I haven't missed my Ipod at all; not one bit.

A Snake in the Grass

My go-to running venue is through our back pastures. I have a four mile trail carved out there along with some faithful running buddies (I May Not Dance With Wolves, But I Do Run With Cows).

It is quiet, peaceful, spiritually fulfilling and physically challenging.

The downsides, though, are the small stream of undocumented people (men) who trek through on their way north as well as the native varmints: coyotes, javelinas, an alligator or two, and snakes. I usually carry a pistol and/or pepper spray when I run, although I've never had to use either.

The undocumented folks are no longer of the family type variety that we used to help with food, or the young guys who are just looking for a job. They are increasingly of the drug cartel type, but more on that later. I am not really worried about them, though. They have other things on their agenda, and if they hang out anywhere near our property, they know I can shoot the chin whiskers off a billy goat. There's also a Border Patrol station a few miles away, which I'm sure gives them more caution than my little pistol.

I'm also not afraid of the coyotes, javelinas, or even the alligators. I am, however, terrified, frightful, yes, scared ----less of the snakes. My very worst nightmares involve snakes.

For that reason, I always keep an eye on the ground in front of me when I run. They like to come out in the cool of the day, the same time I like to run.

Good thing I had my eyes peeled. Look carefully at this picture:

Yep, a happy rattler probably on his way to meet his family. I didn't stick around to find out. I'm sure I broke my personal best running record in getting away from him, had I bothered to even check it. Chicken heart, thy name is Shelly.

I May Not Dance With Wolves, But I Do Run With Cows

I'm a loner when it comes to running. I'm not a pretty runner. I sweat, clomp, and probably look more like a wounded brontosaurus than a gazelle, even when I'm sprinting. (Mr. Tejano says that's not true, but in my mind it is.)

For that reason, my favorite place to run is through our back pastures, where there's nothing but the breeze, the coyotes, some javelinas, a snake or two, and the cows.

Most of those tend to leave me alone, except for the cows. They've taken to chasing me wildly whenever they see me anywhere near them.

It usually plays out something like this. I'll get past the first mile, close to where they're grazing. A few will pick up their heads as they notice me, start to move, then start to jog. The jog turns into a flat out run, with udders swinging, grass flying from mouths, and eyes agape. The other cattle and calves take up the chase as the leaders pass them. The bulls usually take up the rear.

I have no idea what they are thinking, but soon the whole herd is running as fast as their cloven hooves will carry them. I hear the stampede behind me, stop, and turn and look at them. They skid to a halt as the dust they've stirred up settles over them. They bump into each other, with many in the rear mooing their complaints. As I turn to look at them, they whip their heads around to look behind themselves, as if to say, "What... us? We weren't chasing you."

Almost sheepishly, with grass and greenish foam dripping from their mouths and sides heaving, they next look at each other as if to question, "Why did you make me start running?"

The bulls in the rear turn around as if they had no part in this female nonsense.

These are not tame cows by any means, but I know they won't hurt me intentionally, so their consternation always makes me laugh.

Perhaps they think I am one of them. Except my udder is not swinging (thanks to my good sports bras) and grass is not falling from my mouth. Who knows what goes on in the mind of a cow?

Here in South Texas I may not get to dance with wolves, but I darn sure tootin' get to run with cows.