MANASOTA TRACK CLUB

"My, it’s humid out here!" Ms. Winspeed exclaimed as she mopped her forehead with a bright pink bandanna.

I had to agree with her. My face and hands were glistening already.

"What are you aiming for time-wise?" I asked her.

"You know me…I always run for fun," Betsy Winspeed flicked back a moist curl and grinned.

"Yes, I know you, Betsy," I said, "and you’re not above a little competition sometimes."

"Well, maybe this time I’ll try a little something different and see where it gets me." She scanned the dunes on the beach. "You think the sand will be really soft through those dunes?"

"Why don’t we go scout them out," I suggested.

We trotted slowly from the refreshment pavilion out onto the blazing white sand of Siesta Beach. Though both of us were used to running the length of the beach for workouts, tonight’s race promised to be a challenge.

Of indeterminate length, somewhere between 3 and 4 miles, this competition would take us to the north end of the beach, then through soft sand in the small dunes that bordered the east side on our way to the south marker. The turn-around cone on the south, next to a tall beige condo, guided us back through soft sand to a curving trail through some woods. After that, it was every man for himself to get to the finish line.

"I’ve avoided this race for the past two years," Betsy confided as we jogged along toward the north end of the beach. "I scared myself out of it. I told myself I wasn’t any good at waddling through deep sand.

"But today I’m ready! And this breeze from the sea should help me think refreshing thoughts as I run."

I had to admit Betsy had some good positive thinking techniques.

"But, gee, don’t you hate it when there’s no wind at all?" I asked, for I, too, had not been enthusiastic about this particular race in the beach run series. One year, the course had been so airless, the race had stretched on endlessly, I remembered. But not all the races in the series were that grueling.

Held every summer, at Siesta Beach, the series included a variety of competitions, from swim-and-run races to this cross-country match.

I glanced at the tilted catamarans, leaning drunkenly in their dents in the sand near the north end of the beach. We would have to run by those on the course.

We stopped jogging and walked into the sea oats among the small dunes. Because it had rained earlier in the day, the sand was more granular, not as sugar-like as it usually was.

"This doesn’t seem too bad," said Betsy. "I think we can handle this just fine…Between the breeze and the rough sand, I believe we have a couple breaks here. I’m excited, now!" Positive mental attitude was Betsy’s trademark.

‘She may be ready, but I’m not sure I am,’ I thought to myself as I looked at Betsy, the picture of moist composure. Her sky blue running outfit and bright pink bandanna (wrapped around her wrist for easy swabbing of the forehead) made her seem like a happy posy of some sort. She even smelled good.

"What’s that perfume you’re wearing?" I asked.

"Isn’t it great? It works really well in the heat…It’s called Compassion. I spritz a little on before workouts and I love smelling good for races…It makes me feel…well, completely feminine, even if I am trying to be an athlete.

" And I always think that if someone is running behind me, they deserve to be sniffing some wonderful fragrance....not just old sweat.

"Plus… You know what they say…if you can’t run fast, you may as well look and smell good!" She grinned and struck a pose, hand on hip. Then, shielding her face, she scanned the length of the beach.

"Come on, let’s go…I see everyone lining up."

We jogged south to the starting line a bit faster than we had planned, but we arrived in time to stretch a bit before the starter cried, "Runners to your marks…Go!"

And we were off. I lost Betsy right away…I didn’t know if she was in front of me or behind me…I just ran as hard as I could, knowing that after I turned at the north end of the beach, progress would take a lot more energy.

Runners were still bunched up at the orange cone. We rounded it and surged on through the deep sand, now back toward the pavilion and the south marker. I could hear men behind me chatting. Eventually their voices faded.

‘I must be running faster,’ I thought. Or maybe the men were slowing down.

All of a sudden a burst of pink and blue floated by, followed by a cloud of fragrance.

It was Betsy. She had caught up and was passing me! I tried to keep a steady pace, but little by little her plump blueberry frame rolled right away from me. By the time I reached the south marker, Betsy had disappeared.

I rounded the cone and headed for the woods.

The sand was pulling at my feet. I tried running toes out, then toes in. I planted my heel first for awhile, then ran on the balls of my feet . Nothing seemed to have much effect on the clinging nature of the sand.

‘Just keep moving forward steadily,’ I told myself.

The shade of the trees, coupled with the sea breeze in the copse revived me and I picked up speed passing a tall man, a high-schooler with a high kick, a man with a yellow singlet.

Out onto the baseball pitch and around a final cone, then…where?

Some runners opted for veering back onto the beach. I chose to run through the cars and pedestrians in the parking lot. After all, each runner got to choose for himself his final path to the finish line. How philosophical.

The asphalt was a relief after plowing through sand. I felt as if I were truly running now instead of waddling.

I crossed over the wooden bridge and headed back out onto the beach.

The route I had chosen was a longer one, but I was hoping that I had been able to catch a few people by running on a hard surface.

"Come on! Go with me, dear!" I heard in my ear. Ms. Winspeed was at my left shoulder.

"We’ll cross together," she puffed.

I tried to sprint the last few yards through the onlookers, who weren’t expecting runners to be coming through the crowd from behind their backs.

Ms. Winspeed and I finished side by side to claps and cheers.

"Great going, Betsy," I congratulated her.

"How did you catch up to me?" Betsy asked. "I thought I had you once we passed the row of trash cans on the course." She unwound her pink bandanna from her wrist and mopped the back of her neck. "Really, dear, you’re becoming quite fast!"

"I guess the sand kept me from going out too quickly. Somehow I had enough energy left to pick up speed in the woods and sprint toward the end." I was unabashedly happy at my performance. Usually I died at the end of a race.

Ms. Winspeed patted me fondly on the shoulder.

"Well, my dear, you certainly proved yourself this year in this cross-country beach race. I don’t think we’ll feel the need to psych ourselves out about it ever again," Betsy smiled her flowery grin.

We strolled off to drink deeply of the cold water fountain and stretch ourselves out on the pavilion lawn to share our strategies while we waited to collect our ribbons.

© Copyright 1999 by Sheri Bedford