I'd been meaning to buy a scrapbook to put them into, but hadn't gotten around to it yet. Tonight, though, while I was musing over another old volume collage'd with dorm-era nostalgia, I saw it on the shelf—low and behold there was an empty scrapbook just waiting to be given a purpose.
So now I'm sitting on my bed in a sea of Tyvek, dozens of numbers looking back at me. I've detached enough safety pins to service the entire NYC Marathon. This is a photo album only a runner could love—reminding me of the winter chill, the spring rain, the summer heat and the autumn leaves that I run through. My first race, waiting for every gun to go off, my first half-marathon, first marathon, each new PR. And that time I puked Gatorade at mile 11.
At first I just thought "Wow, that's a lot of races," but then I noticed my age printed on one of the early ones and thought "Wow, this is my whole running life. This catalogs my existence as a runner, ever since I started to put one foot in front of the other a little more quickly." So far.
Sometimes I wonder what the heck I'll do with my time once I finally take a break from training for something. But the truth is, at this moment, I can't see myself ever having to face that predicament.