By Karen Dove Barr
For Coastal Senior

Running becomes a passion, not just to escape the neighbor's dog - but to run in a 5K race.

I never was an athlete. In grammar school the team that lost the toss had to take me. In second grade I was kicked out of the rhythm band for lack of coordination. In my high school P. E. class, where the harassed teacher had 120 girls for each one hour period, I was last on her list. In the 1950's nobody cared about girls' sports anyway.

But as I grew older and fatter I tried again to move my size 14 body. My success with aerobics classes matched my success with the rhythm band. "Karen, would you please step outside while we finish this set. You're getting everybody else out of step."

My most strenuous exercise was growing babies. By the time I turned 50 they had grown up and left me. With our new free time my husband and I started working out at the fitness center in our retirement community. We fiddled with the machines, gossiped with our friends, and joined them afterward for a glass of wine and dinner at the restaurant next door. Surprisingly we both started looking better. I got prettier and my husband got more handsome. We were hooked.

I had fun walking on the treadmill. Copying the woman next to me, I burst into a few running steps. My husband caught me.

"Karen, you're too old for that! Just try walking or you will get hurt," he warned.

That was incentive enough for me. I ran a lot harder.

"Karen, if you are so determined to run, why don't you run outside?" my friends asked.

"Because I am afraid to run that far away from the telephone and the bathroom," I wanted to say, but instead I tried running around my block in the dark after work. The Chow at the end of my street objected even more violently than my husband. His owner assured me that her dog would not bite me once he got to know me, but I guess the dog never got to know me.

His woof, woof, woof brought the neighbors out every time I ran.

Entry forms for the Women's Wellness Center 5K (3.1 Miles) walk/run were distributed at our fitness center. Since everybody there knew I was trying to become a runner, I had no choice but to sign up. The race was only four weeks away. I had still never run more than one and a half miles. Part of that distance was inspired by the Chow.

In preparation I increased my time on the treadmill from 20 minutes to 30. I survived the extra 10 minutes by walking. The running book I bought said that if I walked and ran 30 minutes at a time, three times a week for a month, at the end of the month I would be running a 10 minute mile. Boy, was that book wrong!

At least 5K times are judged by age group. By being over 50, I hoped my competition would have thinned. I needed any edge I could get. Since I was scared to death my husband and my dog escorted me to Savannah Mall parking lot to sign in on the big day. The early morning temperature was already over 70. A light rain was falling, sizzling and evaporating as raindrops hit my body, racked with its usual morning hot flashes.

Hundreds of women from 14 to 70 were milling about. Volunteers were setting out boxes of warm doughnuts for the finish line feast. I had no idea so many women liked to run and was surprised to find that dozens of them were at least as old as me. I had to read people's race bibs to find out; old lady runners don't look their age.

The whistle blew and I was off "Slowly, slowly," I chanted to myself I still had never run more than two miles at a time. My husband watched from the top of a hill and my dog marked a crepe myrtle. I ran as far as I could, then walked a while, then ran some more. I was barely breathing by the time I got within 150 yards from the finish line, but something inside sped me up.

From some other set of muscles a surge of energy burst out. "I am woman. Hear me roar." I finished flying. Like flooring the accelerator on a car. Like hitting the downside of a roller coaster. "Old age power," I screamed as I crossed the finish line.

My time was 38 minutes, 42 seconds. Close to last of the runners but way ahead of the walkers.

I couldn't wait to try it again.

Karen Dove Barr is an occassional contributor to Coastal Senior. She lives in Savannah.