LEAVING the sidelines for a story of pacers, PRs, and the lovable characters who turn every fun run into organized chaos.
This year, I didn’t stir the lugaw or guard the booths like the mayordoma of all mayordomas — I laced up my shoes and, thanks to a firm nudge from my son, finally ran my first official 10K.
For a few years, I stood on the sidelines like a breakfast general commanding carbs, watching runners speed past while I stayed planted behind the steamers. But somewhere between that familiar pre-dawn haze and the starting horn, it hit me: it was time to stop watching life (and runners) pass by and finally move with them.
I arrived later than my usual call time — after all, I was out to compete now. My behind-the-scenes duties technically ended the night before, but the organizers, volunteers, beneficiaries, and a handful of early-bird runners were already trickling in. Still, the mayordoma in me couldn’t help it. I walked past the booths one last time, just to be sure nothing was about to collapse, run out of cups, or suddenly attract a suspiciously extensive line.
The runners were a fascinating mix — not the hybrid-vehicle kind, but the humankind. First-timers were fussing with their bibs, veterans were doing their usual warm-ups, and marathon survivors were moving a little more gently that morning. Families showed up negotiating with toddlers. — the kind of talks that could pass for a peace summit.
Office barkadas came in the name of “team bonding,” and the quietly competitive ones acted like they weren’t racing anyone — but we all knew better. And yes, the photo-op crowd was present. They came for the content, not the cardio, and honestly? Respect. Someone has to make the event look good.
The event officially opened with the ceremonial run of our differently-abled athletes, with volunteers following right after them — not because these athletes are fragile, but because they’re part of the tribe. They ran just like the rest of us: steady, focused, and very aware of the snacks waiting at the finish line.
I had a time goal, so I decided to follow a pacer. At first, I ambitiously eyed the 1:20 group before accepting my fate like Ophelia and sticking with 1:30. Good call — I ended up clocking in at 1:24. I stayed with the pacers the whole way, sometimes trailing them, sometimes slipping right beside them like a shadow. Near the finish, I went ahead, and to my own surprise, I had enough left to do it.
Somewhere along the route, I realized the distance wasn’t the hardest part. It was trying to look okay whenever the photographers appeared or keeping a straight face when someone breezed past me like they were just out for a morning coffee.
When I saw my PR, I felt like dancing the Opalite right under the finish line arc. And I could imagine the thrill my brother felt crossing his first-ever race finish line — knees protesting and all.
He’s used to walking more than 10 kilometers a day, just not in one go, so finishing strong was its own quiet victory.
After that burst of joy, instinct kicked in, and I found myself circling back to check on the food booths — old habits really do die hard. Everything was running smoothly: people everywhere, food steaming, staff smiling, kids collecting freebies like they were stocking survival kits, and booths offering a little of everything — from photo stations to games to the famous catching sticks that can turn even the most serious adults into competitive toddlers.
And then, of course, the raffle. Everyone stayed. Everyone hoped. Everyone suddenly remembered saints they hadn’t prayed to in months. There's a special kind of electricity when a community waits for a major prize — a mix of faith, math, and pure delusion. And honestly? It was wonderful to watch.Regrets? None. Just an unexpected PR, aching quads, and the realization that I’ve officially upgraded from booth guardian to someone who can outrun her excuses — even if ua still can’t outrun the photographers.
Still brewing thoughts — no sugarcoating, just stories steeped in truth.
