Racing In The Street

I'm a little jealous of my older brother today. Living at the foot of the Rocky Mountains as he does, I could probably find reason enough on any given day to turn a little green, but Memorial Day is an especially nice day to be in Boulder, Colorado. He'll be running in the thirty-fifth Bolder Boulder 10K race. Winding through the streets of our hometown, taking in the sights and sounds of the cusp of summertime, he'll be crossing over the footprints of his father and his mother and his wife and daughter and his brothers and all those other race enthusiasts who have come before him. And he's going out to do it one more time, keeping the family tradition alive.
In all my years living out here in California, I still haven't found a replacement for that experience. The 10K I used to run after Thanksgiving every year has changed sponsors a half dozen times and now has a new location that makes it just a 5K. I've been asked why I don't run the Bay To Breakers, which certainly has the alliteration down, but the drunken brawl and periodically naked parade that snakes its way from one side of San Francisco to the other holds no real appeal for me. Been there, done that, didn't care for it. Instead, I find myself running along the same worn paths in my neighborhood, imagining the Flatirons looming in the west.
Then I remember that my brother will be running in an organized event, that will be saddled with the heightened security measures instituted after the bombing at the Boston Marathon. Some of the joy might be drained from the day, after having your bag of sweaty clothes checked and the sight of a few extra uniforms along the course. But it's still a place I long for, and when I put on my running shoes and head out into the California morning, I'll be pining for the pines of Colorado. And wishing my brother a good race of his own.