Through The Looking Glass: Running and Chips

In what I am sure is the boldest move I’ve made in a few years, I’ve signed up for a local Chico tradition: the Almond Bowl Run. This is significant for two reasons: One:I am not a runner and Two: in general, I’d rather sleep in on a Sunday morning than mingle with a bunch of really perky runners (insert heavy sigh and eye roll).But I’ve vowed to try some new things and take a little better care of myself, so I sign myself up.

Today is the day before the race, and I head into Fleet Feet on Main Street to pick up my race packet and goodie bag. I secretly hope there are little chewy granola bars or other yummy food items in the bag. The line of people waiting is about 20 deep. There are all types: mothers with baby joggers, a few business folks I recognize from around town. The line moves in a decent pace, and I listen to the chatter around me. I am elated to be part of this group, and I feel a glimmer of my former athletic self emerging.

It’s finally my turn to get my very own goodie

bag. The thing I’m most excited about is getting my official number and a cool t-shirt. My lucky number is six, and I am certain my race number will have at least one six in it, which will be my own little private indicator of race success.

I confidently give my name: “Patterson, Alice.” I am given my bag, which contains my all important number, and the t-shirt. I am instantly alarmed, not by the lack of granola bars, but by my race number: 355. No six. I ponder asking for a new number but I don’t want to look like a complete idiot. So I muster a deflated smile and just say “thank you.” And then super nice Nikki, the race organizer, tells me I’m almost done. I just need to move to the end of the table to get my chip. Huh?

Chip? What in the heck is a chip? No one has EVER told me anything about a chip and now I am absolutely certain I don’t know what I’m doing and I shouldn’t have signed up for this stupid race anyway.

I’m getting hot and kind of irritated. I reluctantly move to the end of the table where these chip things are. An energetic volunteer hands me a black Ve

Velcro bracelet-looking device with bad-luck number 355 on it and says “be sure to put this on one of your ankles so we can …” Suddenly the room seems much louder than before, and I think I hear her tell me they are going to TRACK me.

Oh my god! Big Brother has infiltrated amateur sports! I look around frantically trying to see if the people before me had received these tracking devices. Why on earth would they put a device on me? Have they heard something about me, the new racer? Do they fear I might veer off course, much like I did in my twenties? Will they need to release squadrons of highly-trained, runner-sniffing dogs to find me?

The energetic volunteer in charge of the Tracking Chips witnesses the utter panic and confusion on my face. She slows down her speech like you’d do if you were trying to explain something to a three-year-old or to someone from a foreign country.

“You need to wear the chip so… we… can… TIME… you,” she says slowly. “Without the chip you won’t know how… you… placed.”

Phew! Thank God. I breathe a heavy sigh of relief, thankful I hadn’t actually verbalize the whole chip-tracking-conspiracy theory I had mustered..

“Oh, great. Thanks!” I say, grabbing the bracelet and tossing it in the bag. I might not like my number, but I’m relieved about the whole Big Brother thing.

My sister, a world-class triathlete, calls me to tell me I can walk over to the race with her in the morning if I’d like. Perfect, I think. If I’m with her I won’t get lost and she can help pin 355 on me if I need a little assistance. I tell her about the chip thing, not admitting I thought they were trackers, and mention that my goal is to not place last in my age group. She laughs and tells me to have fun.

“It’s all about participating,” she says in her infinite older-sister wisdom.

So there you go. Tomorrow I will participate in my life. And I’ve got my very own number to prove it.