Well, another Thanksgiving is in the books and another Turkey Trot under my belt. Let me first start out by saying that Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. It has all the family warm and fuzzy stuff combined with the gratefulness of Christmas without the pressure of gifts. Mine is full of traditions that have been a mixture of both mine and my husbands’ families. It is the holiday that in my adult life I have almost always hosted (except for a brief period in the mid-’90s when my parents lived relatively nearby and they hosted). I love the prep work and the anticipation of having all three of my adult children under one roof if even for just 24 hours. A tradition that we began in 2009 was running (I use that term lightly) the annual Buffalo YMCA Turkey trot, it’s the oldest consecutively run footrace in the world! Imagine 13,999 of your closest friends gathered together at the Delaware YMCA to run, walk, jog, rollerblade, push a baby stroller, down Delaware Avenue and finish at the Buffalo Convention center for an after-party which features many things including a live band and beer at 9:30 on Thanksgiving morning. Sounds like a great reason to get up at 5 am, shove that bird in the oven, don my running gear and head out with the family to this Buffalo tradition. I think doing it allows me to justify eating mashed potatoes, stuffing, boatloads of gravy, pie, etc., remember 5 lbs. on a Shortgirl is like 10lbs on everybody else.
Now you might think that I dread this 8k (that’s five miles to you non-runners out there) and you would be correct, I’m not exactly a runner, I don’t have a runners body, my legs are short and I have to take at least 2 times as many steps as these gazelle-like beauties that gracefully and effortlessly stride by me all the way down Delaware. What I do is a woggel- part walk, part jog and lots of jiggles. But every year I tell myself I can do this, if only for a beer at the end or the pie after dinner. The most difficult part of this race is the crowd and my being in the midst of it, it’s kind of like being in a tunnel. I’m staring into a sea of backs, butts and legs. The only people I can see over are the kids in 9 and under a category. The best thing that I can do for myself is to get to the edge of the pack, not in the middle so I can at least see where I’m going and not just get pushed along with the crowd. My biggest fear isn’t that I’m going to collapse while woggeling, but that I will fall and get trampled. In an effort to reduce the chance of this happening I decided that I would make sure that I was visible and dressed from head to toe in various shades of pink.
Fast forward 57 minutes and 31 seconds and I’m crossing the finish line! Time to brave the crowd in the convention center and get my celebratory beer! Short but mighty, shortgirls rule!
