Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, May 15, 1994 TAG: 9405150040
SECTION: SPORTS PAGE: D-3 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: By SCOTT BLANCHARD STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
Some were shirtless, some in flowered shorts, some in tank tops, Spandex, headbands or wraparound shades, all with some kind of waffle on their shoe bottom. One lad wore a loincloth of tan runner's shorts that blended with his skin but for a thin green trim and the white waistband of his revealed underwear.
All were fresh-faced around 9 a.m. - the start of the Shenandoah Life 4-Miler - full of the morning, the sun, the run. As police readied to annoy traffic, runners warmed up so that that starting area was full of bobbing heads, some (the more technically sound, perhaps?) with elbows held pointed out as if to air-dry the underarms.
They could notice a limp American flag, Shenandoah Life's brick and cement building and soothing green - thick grass, fat shrubs, and puffy round maple trees dominating the oversized garden. Then runners massed at the start line, segregated by the heartless classification of the clock - five-minute milers in front, eight-minute milers in back.
At about 8:59 a.m, many of those in the privileged class took the standard starting position - legs slightly bent, hand poised on self-timing wristwatch, waiting for the gun.
Then they were off, down the driveway, under the maples, onto Top finishers in Scoreboard. D2 Brambleton where the orange traffic cones gave their silent dunce-cap directions, and out of sight. The race clock ticked away its big yellow numbers.
Father to daughter: "They go way up that road, and then they come way back."
At the finish line, volunteers strung the used-car-lot plastic multi-colored flaglines into corridors through which finishing runners would be herded like livestock to keep the all-important order of finish. People chatted, sat and waited.
Then, shouts: "Here we go!" "A runner!"
Howard Nippert crosses the line, the winner, and loiters in the finish area taking little kiddie running steps as though his next trip might be to the little boys' room.
At first they come one by one across - one finishes with a wide-mouthed grimace, of pain, relief or exultation (or maybe all three), it was hard to tell - and then they come more rapidly across and the breathy conversations begin.
"You gotta love that."
"Nice job," is the response.
"How'd you do?"
"21 flat."
"All right!"
Mostly smiles cross the sun-warmed finish line but there is some throat-clearing and spitting, and an exhausted "low-five" is the standard non-verbal congratulation. Then comes the women's winner, Hetty Hoyt, of Salem. She passes quietly, letting momentum encourage her to post-race refreshment.
More gasps of conversation as watches are checked and times are exchanged and analyzed. Nobody grouses.
Then one too-competitive fellow staggers across, arm slung over a volunteer. Released, he bends over, hands on knees, but sways backward, catches himself, staggers a few feet and drops to all fours on the grass next to the finish area. He gets up, staggers, drops back to all fours.
Runners still are arriving to cheers, whoops and hollers, the most lusty reserved for the tiniest or oldest travelers.
The first finishers are returning to the start/finish area now, mouths mostly closed, drinks in hand, bodies agreeable to taking air in through the nose. They're headed for the pitched tents in the parking lot that house a band, donuts, juice, fruit, sport drinks and soda.
A golf cart rides in behind the last finisher, flying a cardboard flag that says, "That's all, folks!"
Of such things, a weekend road race is made.
by CNB