Tuesday was the day of the Big Race. In the heat of the afternoon, I put on my shiny new shoes, and Dog and I walked over to the registration desk to pick up my number. By the time I got home I was a hot, sweaty, tired wreck, and I also couldn’t deny that my shoes were hurting my feet. I don’t mean they were too tight, or rubbing in the wrong spot, but that they were causing a sharp pain under my left heel and arch. Now, I fear plantar fasciitis more than the Red Manace, halitosis, and Dick Cheney rolled up into one foul-smelling ball, so I reluctantly concluded that I was not going to be able to wear my new shoes for the race, and I prayed that the pain would not persist.

And then, after that, everything that could go right went right. The temperature dropped slightly. The humidity stayed manageable. I was able to drink enough water before the race that I felt hydrated, and yet hit the bathroom at the optimal moment pre-race so I didn’t feel like I needed to pee through the whole thing. My feet did not hurt. My back did not hurt. Nothing chafed, dug, or blistered. I felt a little breathless on Mile 1 and was feeling a little bored and tired on miles 2 - 5, which were on one long, straight road, but after I did the hill at the end of mile 5 and we hit the scenic part of the race, I was really able to relax and enjoy it.

The race, in its 48th year, is a real community event. The route goes right through town — in fact, right in front of my house — and the people who lined the streets to cheer the relatively quick-paced 5K runners and to see the elite cadaverous-looking 10-mile racers were kind enough to hang around to cheer for us, too. I saw so many people I knew. Are you familiar with the extended opening credits of “The Simpsons” where Bart flies through town on his skateboard and passes every major and minor character in the Simpsons canon on the sidewalk? That’s what it was like, for ten whole miles. There was every person I’ve written about in these pages —Jogging Jesus! The fence neighbors! The mayor! The play group! — and many more. There were people with hoses to spray us and people who had set up unofficial water stations and people blaring music and one little urchin who held out a half-eaten popsicle. I wanted to take it, too, because I found I was unable to drink any water from an open cup without choking while traveling at speed, and I was afraid if I slowed to a walk I would never start again.

The funny thing was, since we were so far behind the pack, not only were people cheering us on, but they were cheering us personally. Time after time someone looked directly into my eyes and said, “You can do it! Four miles to go! You’re doing great!” And time after time I felt compelled to say, “Thank you!” because, after all, the person was looking right at me; there was no one else around. It’s not what Joan Benoit would do, but it only seemed polite.

At mile 9 it was getting dark, and I found myself wanting to speed up to finish. A number of the 5K runners were already walking to their cars, and they continued to call encouragement to us. “You can almost smell the hot dogs!” one guy yelled, leaving me to wonder. Was that a euphemism, like “hitting the wall”? “How was the race, Joe?” “Well, Dave, I was great up to mile 9, then I totally smelled the hot dogs.” Then I did start to smell hot dogs, and I envisioned spectators setting up barbecues near the finish line to picnic among the carnage, much like the first Battle of Bull Run. But it was actually the race organizers providing food for the runners. The nausea that accompanied that smell was probably the worst I felt for the whole race, that is until I crossed the finish line and had to bend down to take off my ChampionChip. Hot dogs. Head rush. Whoa.

Checking the race results the next day, I was relieved to see that we were not the very last of the ten-mile racers, but we were last in the Middle-Aged Fat Lady division. I suppose there is a point of pride in running a race as slowly as you could possibly run it without actually walking. The best part, of course, was running through the familiar streets and having people we know hail us like we were real marathoners. What a great memory.

I can almost smell the hot dogs.