After finishing a local 5K race with a rather disappointing time, I wanted to share my thoughts; I'm hoping to show that even after 18 years of running, I have NOT perfected the sport! I still LOVE the hunt, the "game" of individual sports, the challenges, the emotional pitfalls, and the physical pains that running forces on my body and mind. It is my journey, one that helps me find myself, test my limits, and better understand who I am at the core. I am not perfect. I am not Superwoman, or Supermom, or a patron Saint. But I am me. And that is enough.

As I stand at the starting line, I feel that inevitable rush of anticipation. I take one last inventory of my body. My legs are still sore from the exercise classes I taught that week - more than usual, since I had substituted for a few other instructors that needed classes covered on several of my "off" times. With a slight cockiness, I assumed I could teach these extra classes and still perform well on race day. At the start line, however, I have my doubts. I am thirsty. Why didn't I drink more water last night? I never drink enough, and now, it is too late.

I look around at the competition. They look beautiful and strong, very lean and tall, like true runners in every way. I am jealous. I am short and stockier than the average runner and still think of myself as more of a TRIathlete, not so focused on running. Also, I am on their turf, so I feel they have the edge. They look confident and ready. They even have cool braids or ponytails to compliment their outfits. I am completely incompetent at hair arrangements, so again, I am jealous. My own locks are wadded up under my hat in hopes that I won't have to remove it until I get home. My jealousy turns to anger. Now they appear cocky, almost snooty to me. They don't stride, they STRUT. They don't make eye contact and only speak to each other in knowing tones, spouting their training times as if to intimidate anyone within listening range. It almost works. I am unsure I can keep up, but become intrigued at the perceived challenge. I slide in behind them before the gun sounds, determined to keep pace at all costs.

My legs feel labored from the start, but I stride well and evenly, keeping my pace and listening to my breath. It is heavier than I would like, but I am not too uncomfortable and I can still hear "Miffy" and her friend breathing a few strides ahead. It feels like I am running too fast, but my confidence/cockiness tells my legs to keep going - it should only be about 20 minutes anyway. "Suck it up," my mind tells my body. "Keep going!"

I stare ahead, watching the pack start to spread out before me. Some runners already drop back, others sail along, waiting to catch their stride before burning ahead to join the front of the group. I am steady, searching the horizon for the first mile marker like a ship sailing for dry land. I look at my watch... 5:30. I should see it soon. There it is! I plow ahead, curious to find that first mark of my pace. Am I too fast? Am I too slow? Miffy and her friend are not too far ahead, so I still feel secure. Maybe they will drop off in the second half and I will catch them. I know I can't go faster.

There goes mile one and I am at 7:00. Not too bad! Faster than usual, but I don't want to slow down and lose Miffy. I breeze by the table with the smiling kids and cool water. I don't take any, even though my mouth is dry and I feel the thirst all the way to my toes. I can't waste the couple of seconds I might slow down to either drink or throw the contents onto my head. My brain keeps saying, "Go, go, go! Don't slow down!" I know I need water, but again, it seems too late to help. Only 15 minutes to my finishing goal - surely I can wait.

I keep running, but it still feels forced. My legs feel detached, my lungs are heaving. Where is that darn turnaround point? Miffy and friend are beginning to pull away. Very slightly, but enough to let me know that if I am going to keep up, I have to have more. I search inside, but come up empty. "Just keep running," I say to myself.

I see the turnaround point ahead and look to my watch, judging the distance and time it will take to get me there. I am still on a 7:00 minutes per mile pace, but not feeling so strong. I reach the turn at 10:00, just about right. It is during the turn that I start to feel that strong pinch in my side. Why didn't I drink more water last night? Or even this morning? It is a mistake I have made before and stubbornly repeat, each time hoping I will adapt some miraculous camel-like ability to bypass fluids. I am angry with myself now. I feel my pace dropping.

The mile two marker seems light years ahead. Miffy has glided ahead and I can hardly see her on the horizon. She is sailing along, still strutting and seemingly at ease. I hate her. I hate her friend. Are they even sweating? Those braids were ugly anyhow...

I turn to my own issues at hand. My side aches and pinches with every breath. It feels like I am running with a boulder sewn into my side. I keep running, although I feel the pace slipping and I am now searching for mile two, almost flailing my body along, trying to salvage what is left of my time.

I reach mile two at 15:30. That means an 8:30 second mile. Horrible for me, but all I can muster. I try to drive on and feel my calf beginning to tighten. NOOOO! Not now! I feel the muscle begin to quiver. I try to stride ahead, waving desperately to my team members as they pass by on the opposite side of the road, still heading for the turnaround. They look good. They look happy and I am pleased for them. But inside, I am fighting with myself, trying not to appear overwhelmed with pain. After all, I am the team leader! I am supposed to run well and free, happy and strong, not aching and desperate. I knew better. I needed to run my own pace and not chase Polly Pigtails.

I plod along, desperate to see the finish line and all too cognizant of my aching side and calf. I have given up chasing anyone and feel shamed as I watch the throng of runners pass by as I struggle to place one foot in front of the other. I know I am better than this. Hopefully, there is a downhill soon.

I see the final turn into the stadium and tell myself I will surge on the downhill and hopefully gain some ground. I hesitantly look at my watch and feel that all is lost as my goal time slips away and I am still not close to the finish line. How much longer will it take? I have slowed to a 10:00 minutes per mile pace, far removed from my 7:00 stride only moments before. How quickly I have fallen. I am disappointed, but still focused on keeping my feet moving and desperately trying to cross the finish line the tiniest bit faster than my current pace. I see the clock ticking a disastrous fate.

Finally, I am there. The official yells, "25:25." I am heaving and aching, but not bad enough to stop me from shooting a quick, annoyed glare at him for his announcement. "Keep moving!" the others yell, herding me through the chute. I want to throw up. My side hurts. My legs hurt. Most deeply, my pride is crushed. 25:25. More than three minutes short of my goal. I wasn't even close. I have run better times with friends, chatting the whole way. What happened to me?

Life. That's what happened.

As I walk back over the course, I see my team members happily running along, cheering, and smiling as they head to the finish. I remember some of them attempting to simply run for two full minutes in what seems like yesterday. Now they are cruising along, happy and fulfilled. In that moment, I forget my own disappointment or pain and think about how lucky I am to be here in the warm sun, facing the unparalleled beauty of the Colorado mountains and watching these women succeed. They struggle too, and although I might cover greater distances in shorter times, we struggle TOGETHER, and that makes all the difference.

While I feel the remorse of not reaching my goal, I also feel the exhilaration in the chance to try again, and again, and again. I am always learning - sometimes the same lesson, over and over. Most importantly, my hope is that in my shortcomings, others will see that no matter who you are, what your level of experience or competency, we all face the same struggles, and that is what really binds us together. Beginners and veterans alike struggle - as in life - and the important part is being able to pick yourself up and drive on with the enthusiasm and excitement for the future, never looking back so far as to let yourself feel regret.

I check my calendar for my next race. NEXT TIME, I'll be there!

Vanessa Warren is the team leader of Moms In Motion in Colorado Springs.