Dad and I run the Gasparilla Half Marathon

Dad and I ran the Gasparilla Half Marathon this morning. We rolled into the parking garage at 5am, dressed, and checked out the port-a-potty situation. For those of you who might run this race, here’s a tip: go behind the convention center, near the starting line, and you’ll find row after row of shining blue port-a-john’s. Resisting the temptation to try them all, I did my business and then Dad and I stared at each other and wandered around the area until time to run.
The weather was tricky. The forecast called for gusty winds and rain to strike the bay area an hour after the starting gun. I opted for my Peter Pan costume, with running tights and long sleeves. History has proven to me that it’s better to be warm than cold. Fortunately, I would get the opportunity to enjoy both sensations on this blustery dawn.
The gun fired, we herded down the dark streets, and I was overwhelmed by the familiar frustrations of dodging the inept, fat fools who, for reasons beyond my simple facilities, always lumber to the front of the starting pack and mingle with the faster runners. I hopped a couple of heifers and loped over the Davis Island Bridge with the rest of the bleary-eyed athletes.
My wardrobe decision blew up in my face around mile 5, when the rain arrived in a gust that threatened to blow me over a curb. I spent the next 5 miles leaning into the wind, shivering, and enjoying the curses and muttered prayers emitted from runners around me. My faith in humanity was restored crossing the Davis Island Bridge for the tenth or eleventh time, when my visor blew from my head and flew like a kite backwards over a looming group of runners. Rather than go back for it, I pressed on, around a corner that took the route back under the same bridge. As I labored down the road, an elderly gentleman climbed down the slope from the bridge, waving my visor over his head. I grabbed it from his hands with a smile, thanked him, and continued on to the finish line, finishing at the one hour, forty-eight minute mark.
I will say this about cold weather races: it’s easier to finish in the cool air. Whenever I run a race or triathlon in the muggy Florida heat, I dread the finish line. You hammer out the last half mile, cross the line and have to stop and stand still while a race volunteer cuts the timing chip from your shoes. I am usually overtaken by chills and shakes at this point and trying not to reward the volunteer’s kindness with a deposit of my breakfast on their person.
Dad finished in 2 hours; 30 minutes. Not shabby for the geezer category. We grabbed some coffee and bagels and headed back to our family lives.