Father forgive us for what we must do
You forgive us and we’ll forgive you
We’ll forgive each other ’til we both turn blue
And we’ll whistle and go fishing in the heavens
— the prophet john prine
There are basically two kinds of races: those that feature a nun with an air horn, and those that don’t. This was the first kind.
It was an OK day. I didn’t throw up on any members of the clergy (note to self: have “Exorcist” pea soup scene surgically removed from brain), and shockingly didn’t finish last in my age group. Bonus: The entry fee helps the nuns build a monastery. Win-win-win. I’m going to heaven for sure.
I often wonder why we run insanely expensive organized races in the age of Garmins when you can go out anytime on your own and stage a Gumbo race for free.
But I suppose it’s like going to church. You can worship at home, but there’s something special about that gathering.
A uniting of kindred souls, True Believers. A morning fellowship of suffering and reveling and reflecting. An occasional rebirth to recharge the batteries before heading back to Walden. A celebration of life.
Maybe it doesn’t matter what the religion or distance or surface is. The important thing is to believe in something. Anything.
Me? I believe in running. And nuns with air horns.