I turned forty this summer, which in running terms means one thing–Master. The celebration wasn’t even over when one of my master friends suggested that I compete in a master’s track meet-the 2006 USA Masters Outdoor Track & Field Championships in Charlotte.

My first questions to my friend were 1) did I have to wear spikes and 2) did I have to wear bun huggers? Turns out spikes are optional, and not usually worn by older folks in the 10,000 meters, but I decided that bun huggers would put me in the right frame of mind, that of a Track Athlete. I opted to wear a singlet along with them rather than going for the total bikini look. Apparently I’m more self-conscious about my 40-year-old belly than my 40-year-old butt.

The reason I was more concerned about my attire for the race than my training for it was simple: I hadn’t done any speed work in months. So I figured that looking fast was the half of the battle.

In case you’re wondering, yes, I have raced on the track before. And yes, it has been twenty years. Long enough for time to have erased the memory of the pain involved, but not long enough to erase the memory of the Single Most Embarrassing Moment of my running career. It was a collegiate meet at the Naval Academy, and I was running the 5000 meters or some other distance that entailed an insane number of laps on an indoor track. Back then, I wasn’t very fast, and tended to get lapped from time to time. In that particular race, it just so happened that I was getting lapped just as the leader was beginning her final lap – the gun lap. I must have known that I was getting lapped. I must have known that I had two laps remaining, not one. However, when I heard that bell, pure instinct kicked in, and I began my finishing kick. I raced around that track as fast as I could, using every last bit of energy in my body. It seemed the finish line would never come. Finally I reached it, only to be told to continue – I had another lap to go. Up in the stands, my mother was crying. I wanted to slink off the track in shame. But somehow I did it. Struggled around the oval one more time. Tried to avoid eye contact with the officials, my teammates, and my coach. Managed to put the whole dreadful incident out of my mind-until now.

Race day in Charlotte dawned warm and humid. By the time I had finished my warm-up, I looked as if I had just climbed out of a pool. But then again, so did my competitors. I figured that everyone was facing the same conditions, and all I could do was run my own race and count my laps carefully. That strategy paid off, and this time when the bell signaled the final lap, it was for me.