We all have our traditions, and one of mine is the Turkey Trot, a five-mile race that starts near SouthPark. I’ve run every one. It’s my favorite race because even bad guys are in a decent mood at 9. a.m. on Thanksgiving morning.
By the time I leave the post-race get-together at the Morrocroft Starbucks, also part of the tradition, I have run into half the people I know. Some I have known since the 1980s and some I have known for a few months. They’re all in a good mood.
There’s a neat spirit to morning, lots of children and dogs, one of the dogs inexplicably dyed lime green. Everybody pulls for everybody. And you when you finish, you know you can eat with impunity the rest of the day.
There was a large group of walkers in the race this year and, inexplicably, we chose to line up behind them. We had no idea. By the time we hit the starting line, some of the faster people were about to finish. That’s our excuse, anyway.
The best move of the day was put on by the guy in front of me who was sprinting toward the finish line. Built like a linebacker, he was charging down the left side of street when, once more inexplicably, an older woman carrying a baby walked onto Morrison Blvd. in front of him.
The guy might be built like a linebacker, but he moves like a tailback. Somehow he avoided the woman and the baby.
"I don’t know how you did that," I told him, and we slapped hands.
The beauty of tradition is that you know you’ll be at the same place at the same time with many of the same people you were with the previous year and the previous two decades. It’s reassuring.
Also reassuring is that I don’t have to run the way I once did, when I would tell myself that if I didn’t pass the guy in the turkey outfit I couldn’t eat all day. Now I just wave. See ya. Don’t wait.
My legs are shot, but, as always, it was a great way for as many as 4,000 of us to start a day.
I’m going to enjoy my Thanksgiving. I hope everybody else does, too.
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