Last. Dead Last.

The good news is that we finished.  I have the ribbon to prove it.  The bad news is that I came in last. Absolutely last.  Roll up the sidewalks and shut down the timer last.

Every year for the past 4 years my sister Nancy and I have participated in the New Year’s Day “Resolution Run” in Hillsborough, a 5K run/walk “race” that meanders through the streets of a development adjacent to the Municipal Building.  We layer up – after all, January 1 is customarily COLD – eventually putting on the heavy, nice sweatshirts provided to all entrants, and we line up outside ready to walk.  

Here I should say that walking is a typical activity for each of us.  We both walk often.  In the summer, Nancy walks before work, at lunchtime and, when the days are long enough, she’ll hit the streets for an evening stroll.  I walk, too, though not as often as she does.  But the idea of doing this activity together and starting the year off right was appealing to both of us, so we signed up.

Not that I had high hopes, because, in year one, I finished dead last.  In the next two years, I managed to lower my time a bit, trying to finish in under one hour.  In 2015 I made it by seconds.  That year we finished ahead of the lady with the hula hoop.  Not the lady who comes every year and hoops her way through Hillsborough (who didn’t show up this time around), but the lady with the hula hoop whose husband owns the local ice cream shop.  We were determined to finish ahead of her last year, and we did.  There was an older couple walking behind us, but I was convinced they had a finishing kick, so we rallied to stay ahead of them.

But this year, no such luck.  

The runners, of course, immediately passed us.  By the time we finish, I picture them at home, munching on a protein bar and watching the Rose Parade on TV.  But even the walkers had what I’ll call a leg up on us, and soon we were at the back of the pack.  As everyone passed us, only a very large man trailed us, and he huffed and puffed his way behind us for the first mile.  Since he didn’t keel over, he became bolder and passed us.  And we let him go.

As you walk this 3.2 mile race, the people in the neighborhood come out to greet you, cheer for you, sound cow bells and encourage you.  Not that we don’t appreciate that, but we let them know that their duties have ended when we pass, since we bring up the rear.

Maybe it’s the layering?  

We saw plenty of people in shorts, many in those thin-looking pants they wear for yoga and workouts.  Several not only didn’t wear coats, they wore t-shirts in 40-degree and windy weather (not so windy, but windy enough).  I actually saw goosebumps on the arms of one guy at the starting blocks.  Clearly, he did not have Sylvia Gordon as his mother.  I can still hear her admonish us, “Wear a hat!”  My mother would look out the window and declare the temperature cold.  She made me wear a coat over my Halloween costume!  We always were forced to wear enough layers that the only possible snow activity was to make snow angels.  

We learned our lessons well.  My sister wore 4 layers this year.  I had on long johns under my heaviest sweatpants, one of those long-sleeve dry-fit shirts, a fleece top, a sweatshirt and a jacket.  You couldn’t even see my official number until I unzipped the jacket.  This year we did not need the hand warmers, but my sister – who typically eschews all forms of headwear – broke out the fleece headband.  I donned my official winter walking hat, a 2006 Torino Winter Olympics model issued by Johnson & Johnson.  I particularly favor this one because it has flaps for my ears.  I have been known to put in my headphones, put down the flaps and add earmuffs for the glamourous look I’m after.  Picture it with a hooded sweatshirt and scarf and you’ll get the picture.

So maybe the layering slowed us down.

My sister, who is maybe an inch taller than I am and in much better shape, was perplexed as to why we were last and why we couldn’t move faster.  Usually we look for the sure bets.  One year we saw a woman fall down in the parking lot on the way to registration and we set our sights on beating her.  She passed us.  Another year a man was pushing a baby carriage, and once a father carried his son on his shoulders.

They beat us, too.

But don’t feel sorry for us.  Feel sorry for the people who would like to participate but can’t.  Or those people who won’t try, or who have given up.  We haven’t.  

My contention is this – at least I am doing this.  Before I joined Weight Watchers in 2011, my idea of exercise was getting off the couch and walking to the kitchen for a snack.  At least I am outside, getting some exercise, and exposing about 6 square inches of my body to the sun’s rays for that much-needed Vitamin D.  

For my sister and me, it is just a day when we get to take a walk together, when we can exchange mind-numbingly boring chatter and catch up.  It isn’t about time or speed or beating someone.  It is about starting the new year off right.

So why is she already telling me I had better start training for next year because I am holding her back?  Because she is determined for us NOT to finish last again.  

To help assure that the results will be better, I have embarked on a new campaign of walking by joining a walking class at the Clubhouse in my community.  On Tuesdays and Thursdays you can find me in the ballroom (the snazziest “gym” I have ever seen) watching a DVD exercise program led by the relentlessly cheery walking DVD guru, Leslie Sansone.

Leslie and her cohorts walk, side step, jog, power walk – all inside – for 30-60 minutes, during which time she encourages, cajoles, instructs and talks her way through a series of exercises designed to keep you moving.  She chirps away her instructions without ever getting short of breath – which would be a fatal flaw in an exercise instructor, I suppose.  She talks directly to the audience, almost making me believe she can see me, although if she could, she probably wouldn’t be all that cheery.  She is surrounded by people of all sizes and ages, all of whom look strangely thrilled to be seen in public in their workout clothes.  Some really power through the workout, while some go through the routine moderately.  My heroes.  

Following along with Leslie and co., I realize how uncoordinated I really am.  Move my arms and my legs?  I’m not sure they operate that way.  I am likely to trip over the carpet or knock myself out.  Kick AND reach up?  Whoa, that sounds like a dance routine.  I shudder to think of me attempting Zumba without medical professionals on high alert.

But the point is, I am walking, and working.  After all, Oprah says she could have her best body yet this year, so why not?  

And maybe, just maybe, at the 2017 Resolution Run, my sister and I will NOT finish last.  Dead last.