It was not one of my better days. In fact, the area cancer survivors for whom this road race was dedicated might seek support groups for me to attend, rather than allow the storm cloud above my head to affect the other 147 participants.

I arrived at the Penobscot Bay YMCA RunStrong 5K at Camden Snow Bowl in good season, only to spend my extra time rummaging through my excess stuff in search of the few items of actual necessity. 

Earlier in the week I'd registered by phone, reluctantly orating my credit card number in order to reserve my women's shirt. If a shirt is part of the package, it ought to be wearable, right?

The morning of the race the registration table had no record of me. My shirt size was not an option. I will later admit the equivalent men’s size I received fits almost as well, though at the time, the bitterness smoldered.

My body didn't want to run. My underwear drove me nuts. I'd driven an hour to enjoy trail running at the ski area. Had I paid attention to the Penobscot Bay Pilot articles, at least I'd know of the trail construction on the mountain and subsequent mile and a half hard surface run in each direction along the road.

At the first mile my race chip, wrapped around my lower leg, began to chafe and cut. At the halfway mark I twisted my ankle. The next mile and a half stretched longer than I remembered, and all the while I fretted about being surpassed by runners in my wake. The finish line finally closed in; the clock showed a time 60 seconds faster than my official race chip time. The results board posted female finishers before and after me whom I don't recollect running between.

Normally, I retreat from road races within minutes of crossing the finish line. This time I waited, festering in my determination to see these phantom runners.

I festered until the Frisbee ricocheted off my shoulder. Karma whacked my body, punishing my self-centered mindset. I stood up and left.

Getting into my car and driving away was the best decision of the day. The reality is, my competition hadn't reciprocated my challenge. The challenge was over for them, eradicated by radiation, chemotherapy, tiresome days, and sleepless nights. Their fears and anxieties held far greater substance than my superficial strives.

My competitors don't care about me, or scoreboards. They were taking their victory laps, shining brighter than their yellow "survivor" shirts.

To cancer survivors, let me say thank you. Thank you for putting one foot in front of the other — every day. Thanks for seeing life worth living. Thanks for not existing in pettiness the way I did during this event. Continue your victory lap. I'm cheering for you.