Tim and I are cut from the same cloth that says, “WE WILL WIN, DAMMIT.”

And the part where we say “WE WILL” means at all costs to life, limb and personal possession.  In the end, we may not *exactly* win, but we fought like hell trying.  That’s what counts.

Yesterday was the 20th “running” (I say “running” because there is a 1 mile walk and also a 5k run-or-walk-if-you-want-to option) of the Atlanta Komen Race for the Cure.  Tim’s company is trying to be more involved in local charities and events, so this was a work-family affair for him.  Most were walking the 1 mile. One, for sure, was running the 5k.  Let me take a moment to write a short sentence to describe how The One sees himself: “Hi, I’m Super Freakin’ Awesome at….LIFE.”

Wait…wait…I need another sentence: “And I wear 70s sun glasses because, DUH, MacGuyver.  And this hat?  Completely appropriate for a foot race.”

(Ok, so that was more like 3 sentences…but it is important you understand how the One sees himself)

(Also – this wasn’t *exactly* his hat…but close enough.  I just spent 15 minutes trying to FIND something similiar…and that was 15 minutes too long. If you’re curious, I googled “old style hat.”)

And the One was hell bent on either A: beating “the runners” (because now, after a marathon in the books and another coming in a few months, this is how Tim and I are known at our respective places of work) or B: staying with “the runners.”

Obviously, there was no way in any kind of hell, bent, straight or otherwise, Tim was going to let that happen.  And as an extension of him, neither was I.

So, at 7:00am, over 17,000 people, decked out in varying shades of pink, sporting ribbons and t-shirts and striped tube socks, stickers, ginormous fuzzy hats, bracelets and names of survivors who beat breast cancer or loved ones who lost the battle with the disease on their shirt backs, began filling the streets at Atlantic Station to show their support for the cause(Atlantic Station is like a self-contained community within Atlanta.  Very…interesting).

Tim and I showed our support by replacing our white shoelaces with pink and wore pink and white socks. Tim had a hat with pink and I a tied pink ribbon in my hair and wore pink shorts.  We also ordered pink, rubberish bracelets (think Livestrong in pink) that were for breast cancer awareness.  Tim passed them out to everyone who worked with him during the all-who-work-at-Tim’s-company-meet-up-at-a-pre-designated-location phase of the morning at a store front in Atlantic Station. Both races – the 1 mile and 5 k  – started and ended in Atlantic Station, so it was a crazy house of pedestrians and vehicles and police people yelling at those who didn’t use the sidewalk along with cars going too fast or in the wrong direction.

Anyhow, we had extra bracelets, so I gave them away to random people passing by us while we waited for the 1 mile walk to finish.  During my bracelet giveaway, Tim sat next to the One, who was sticking to us like white on rice, busying himself with activities like taking off his shirt to pin on his race bib, and in the process, blinding everyone with his stark whiteness of man flesh, along with contorting in strange positions that I guess he considered was ”stretching,” even though…well, let’s just say I cannot figure out how bending into a pretzel is beneficial.

I had fun, being the giver of the random act of unexpected kindness.  The people I handed the bracelets to first looked super surprised and then relieved I wasn’t crazy and then grateful for the gift. Plus, it gave me an excuse to look away from the circus going on next to Tim.

Finally, it was time for the 5k people to line up.  We had been standing around waiting for almost two hours, and anyone who has run a race before knows how hard it is to WAIT to start a race.  Tim and I eventually lined up with the One (we had “unintentionally” lost him as we made our way to the starting line, but Tim’s moral obligations kicked in, so we sought him out again instead of staying in hiding, like I wanted.  Obviously, Tim is a bigger person than me).  This lining up with the One was actually a better strategy, because if we started with him and then ran ahead of him, there was no way he could say he won.

And that’s exactly what we did.

We started out super fast, weaving in and out of the massive crowd of people, trying to find an open spot to run.  This “”weaving” is my least favorite part of any race.  It’s tiring and dangerous and completely throws you off your pace.  And all of the dodging and jutting past people resulted in our pace for the first half of a mile being around a 7:30 minute mile.  For us, that’s like, unspeakably fast.  Also? The One was still running right beside me.  He had somehow managed to stay with us even though his gait was more of a bouncing up and down motion, but whatever he was doing propelled him forward fast enough to stick to us like glue.

So I slowed down and let the One get in front of us.  My cross country running strategy days started kicking in.  I wanted to see if the One would maintain the super fast, gazelle-like pace or slow down to something more reasonable.  I stayed directly behind the One while he kept looking left and right, trying to see if we really were lagging behind, and as a result, he was BEATING US, or if were surging past him somewhere else.  Tim kept looking at me all, “What are you DOING???”

As I expected, the One slowed down.  WAY down.  Almost an 11 minute mile pace down.

Tim: “We’re too slow.  We’re at a 10:50 pace.”

Me: “I’m trying to see what he’s going to do.”

Tim: “Huh?”

After that I think I tried to say something about waiting until we got to the top of the super long hill we were currently running before we made our move past the One, but I think it got lost somewhere between my brain and my mouth.  So instead, Tim and I sped up and passed the One just before we crested the hill.

And we didn’t look back.  Our goal was to finish the race under 30 minutes.  “Anything with a 2 in front and I’ll be happy” is what Tim said a few days before.  In order to get a 2 in front our finish time, we would need to run a 9:30ish pace or faster.

At 2 miles, Tim puffs out, “2 miles.  17 minutes and some odd seconds.”

Individually, as Tim and I learned later, we both had the exact same thought after he called out the 2 mile time: “We can run a 10 minute mile for the last 1.1 miles and still make it under 30 minutes.”

But, you see, that is not what two people who are ridiculously competitive do. 

No, you speed up and push your body through the heat and cramping and pain.

And finish in 27:01.

Blowing our previous 5k times out of the water and also beating the One.  Both very important.

Once we made our way from the race expo, where volunteers gave away everything from bottles of Smart water to Skinny Cow ice cream to various fruits and snacks, we managed to capture a part of the race from the balcony of our hotel room that was truly awe inspiring.  So many people.  All walking and running and giving their time on a Saturday morning to show support for such an important cause: to treat and attempt to find a cure for breast cancer:

The hotel was a pre-planned activity so Tim and I could avoid the traffic and enjoy a lazy Saturday after the race.  We spent the remainder of the day walking around Atlantic Station, eating Mexican for lunch at Rosie’s (we shared the homemade guac and I had the Mexican Street salad. Yum) and going to the Bodies exhibition (the one where you look at real cadavers…it’s very…educational…kind of strange seeing what you actually look like on the INSIDE).

I have to mention, though, that during the last mile or so of the race, my mind did meander away from the burning desire to beat the One and instead to those who have battled or are battling breast cancer.  The few moments of pain I felt was nothing compared to the months and years of agony those with breast cancer feel and their families feel on a daily basis.  How can you not give your all for a single race when these men and women give everything, every ounce of strength and courage and will power, that they have every. single. day.

We weren’t running for us.

We were running for them.