My 25-year high school reunion was last weekend. All spring, I'd been thinking about how perfect the timing of it was--just two weeks after my marathon. Call me shallow, but I was all excited to brag about my sub-4:00 time and flaunt my running-toned legs. Come on, it had been 25 years since we trotted around in kilts and most everyone had had kids, so I was banking on some classmates being out of shape or even downright dumpy.
Denied! All the women who showed were incredibly trim and perky looking. All natural, yet all gorgeous. And we were so excited to see each other that we got caught up in myriad conversations, rarely veering toward running. A few former classmates who are also Facebook friends knew about my marathon. But instead of asking about my finish time, they merely marveled that my knees still allow me to put in any sort of miles.
It got me thinking: Marathon bragging rights don't extend very far. Facebook and this blog, natch, and some running buddies, sure, but otherwise numbers don't mean much to folks. And, since reunion, I've realized I'm okay with that. Dimity, my fellow marathon mom, ribs me about being a braggart, so this admission may come as a surprise to her.
But I've come to realize that my marathon PR is a nugget I hold closer than I expected I would. It's like a gem I keep tucked into that useless, tiny fifth pocket on a pair of jeans. In the last few weeks, I've fished out my 3:52:37 time, polished it a little, and marveled at it, but usually it doesn't make a blip on my radar. Who knows, maybe I need some perspective, but for now I'm not going to force it.