The snow had melted, the sun shone, and there was no wind . . . . even the 36° at race start seemed perfect. The Kid, too embarrassed to be seen with us, sprinted away immediately. We didn’t see her again until 30 minutes later.
I thought about the basic “neuro” exam all doctors are supposed to do on all patients – the rudimentary maneuvers that a neurology attending once told me were perhaps next to useless, because really, only a neurologist knew what tests to perform and why. I whined about various aches and pains (real and imagined), complained about blisters and calluses and bunions, and wondered why so many people seemed so enamored of such an inefficient way of locomotion . . . . I stared enviously at a young man springing by; his heels never touched the ground, and he was soon out of sight. I pound along, with no spring, and definitely no style, but look! — I am upright, and I can run. My brain worked.
The Kid was waiting for us at the finish, and we crossed the line with silly delight, hand in hand.
“Did you notice we finished before the guy with the baby jogger and the kid on his back?”