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Running With The Losers

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Have you seen an orange, heavenly body streaking across the predawn sky in downtown Concordia? Fear not – it’s neither a comet nor a meteor. Nothing to worry about. It’s MEEEEE!!

Yep! That’s the usual hour when my orange Kenya running jacket can be seen, often doing laps between W. 5th St. and 6th St. The great thing about working out so early each morning is that – no matter how crappy the rest of your day is, at least you have that positive activity to feel good about.

Today, I’ll share an article I think you’ll enjoy that provides “proof positive” that God answers prayer when all hope seems lost. Let me take you back to 1965. Hope you enjoy it …

Remember the feeling?

You were a wimpy 14 year-old freshman at Oroville High in California.

Your girlfriend was the overly cultured and sophisticated Carolyn Good, daughter of a powerful county judge. And to keep her, you would do anything short of a felony.

You were never going to climb Mt. Everest or circumnavigate the globe in a leaky canoe; so instead, you boldly and pathetically signed up for the track team.

TRACK? Dumb, dumb, dumb. Not exactly the panties-dropper you envisioned. Remember?

So today, here you are … in Roseville, CA, at the league championship track meet. Carolyn is in the grandstand with her girlfriends, and they’re all watching as you prepare to race.

Your winning anything would be roughly equivalent to walking out into the Pacific Ocean and not sinking. Carolyn doesn’t know it, but you do – you have no shot. Zip, nada, zero.

You weigh less than 120 pounds soaking wet. Some of the cheerleaders weigh more than you. Small fries like you compete in the Class C division. The A and B divisions designate older and bigger boys who are faster and more talented.

Not that Carolyn would know the difference.

She’s pretty. Pretty clueless.

You’re not even fast enough to run in the first heats with the fastest Class C runners, the kids who will win medals. You are in the “loser heat” with the slower kids, an obvious sign of Coach Strauss’s opinion of your athletic talent, or lack thereof. Put him in the slowest heat. Maybe he won’t finish last.

You’re not only a runt; you’re a slow runt.

It’s too late to back out now. Short of an earthquake causing the San Andreas fault to crack open and swallow up everyone in Roseville, there is no escape. You have to run.

It was the first time in your life when you realized there ARE fates worse than death. You don’t have butterflies … your stomach is full of large, fluttering birds, none of whom want to run this race any more than you do. You’d like some time alone to throw up, but everyone is ready. It’s your turn. (Gulp)

330 yard dash. Staggered start around one curve. You’re in the fourth lane … three guys behind you, four ahead. You pray to God, hoping you don’t finish last. “Pleeeease, God … “

BANG! You’re off!! 20 yards down the track, a shocking development – you make up the stagger of the first kid ahead of you. 50 yards further, an even greater shock – you pass another kid… and nobody is gaining on you from behind. Everything is a blur ...

Coming out of the turn – Dear Jesus, you’re IN THE LEAD! A long straightway … 100 yards to go ... you kick with everything you have left ... Just a little further … and … you break the tape and WON!

YOU FRIGGIN’ WON!!! You won your race at the league championships. You can’t believe it! The coaches can’t believe it. So what if it was the loser heat – a win is a win is a win!! YOU WON!

Fifteen minutes later, while you’re basking in sunny adulation and disbelief, your name is called over the loudspeaker. You and another Class C runner are asked to report to the scorer’s table.

The judge explains ... you ran the same exact time as the 4th place finisher in the first heat, with the faster kids. We tied. That's the good news. The bad news? There’s only one medal. A coin-flip determines who gets it. Loser of the flip gets a lousy green ribbon.

Holy crapolla.

You call “TAILS!” The coin flips into the air … over and over. Your self-esteem hangs in the balance. You want that medal more than a million bucks.

And it’s … TAILS! Unbelievable! You won the flip … You won A MEDAL!! Shaking hands, you feel terrible for the other kid. You feel pretty good for Roy Michael. Your very first racing medal. Wow! And it’s a bleepin’ championship medal. God must have a soft spot for wimpy runts.

Carolyn acts like you won a gold medal at the Olympics.

She’s very pretty. Clueless and pretty.

Fifty years later, you will have accumulated drawers full of running medals, ribbons, gaudy trophies, and big plaques. You will have won medals from national track meets and multiple medals from The Boston Marathon. But the most cherished medal of all is engraved:

“330 Yd Run, 4th Place, 1961, Sierra Foothill League”

A reminder that miracles happen and God answers prayer.

That day, you were not a 118 lb. runt. You were a 118 lb. stud muffin.

Just ask Carolyn.

 

 

At 73, R Michael Owens is no stud muffin. More like a cream puff. Contact him: Rmykl@yahoo.com

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