TRURO — Saturday dawned, but only barely. The light was low, and the rain was heavy as I exited the car at Truro Vineyards and sloshed my way over the grass to the check-in table. There, Britta Lower, Adam Leiterman, and Julia Morris shivered in front of portable heaters welcoming participants in the first Turkey Trot 5k presented by the Truro Recreation Dept. and Truro Vineyards.
Leiterman is the supervisor, and Lower and Morris staff the rec dept.’s Out-of-School-Time program.
The race course began in the vineyard, then wound its way over three miles of hills and valleys: along Shore Road, past Salty Market Farmstand, Village Pond, the Moorlands Inn, and up the last peak toward the Atlantic Spice Company. At the base of its driveway, we’d make an about-face and travel back down the hill to finish at the vineyard again.
A few soggy-looking Truro policemen stood nearby. There was no cost to register, Lower told me. And there weren’t any bibs, either. This was a casual event. She handed me a bright orange T-shirt: “The Gobble Hobble,” it said.
Runner Kali Lower’s sunny smile seemed at odds with the biting wind. She said she was happy for the “end-of-drought season.” Lower teaches 5th grade at Chatham Elementary School, works part-time at Truro Vineyards, and lives in Eastham. The rain didn’t concern her much. “I think you end up having more fun in the rain,” she said. “There are more memories to go along with it.” Kali had only one worry: “Not winning.”
There was more than one way to leave this thing as a winner. After the race, raffle tickets would be drawn from six buckets, and a lucky few would win gift baskets and gift cards to local businesses that had donated: Captain’s Choice, Montano’s, the Truro General Store, Atlantic Spice Company, Salty Market, and Truro Vineyards. I dropped my two free tickets into the bucket, wanting that Salty Market bonanza.
Before the race began, we 16 runners and four walkers gathered underneath the pavilion behind the main building. Will Bullard, who lives with his wife along the course, readied his race-time music — tunes from Puerto Montt, a city in southern Chile. “We’re going there in January,” said Bullard. He was looking forward to the warmer weather.
I thought about sunshine as I contemplated the three miles that stood between me and my lunch. Lower shouted into her squealing megaphone, and at 10 a.m. we were off.
We ran in a pack for the first half mile. I’d trained for a half-marathon all summer and completed it in September. Since then, I’ve only jogged a few measly miles once or twice a week. This pace was faster than my usual amble. But I aimed for a steady trot. I was no hobbler.
Village Pond was beautiful through the raindrops in my eyes. Passing cars honked their admiration — or were they annoyed, warm in their seats, as we squelched by in our soaking sneakers?
My fitness watch diligently tracked my distance and pace. A mile in, 10 minutes and 30 seconds after the start of the race, my toes were numb, there was no prize, and I was alone — the pack had swept ahead of me. I hobbled on.
I made the about-face at the bottom of the driveway to Atlantic Spice. Then I sprinted down the hill and crossed the finish line, coming in second to last. But who was counting? My watch wasn’t, I discovered when I checked it a moment later. It had stopped a while before, shut down by my own wet hand fidgeting with my sleeve. Leiterman said he hoped that next year things would be more official, and runners would be able to clock official times as they crossed the finish line.
Kali tied for the win with Nauset High School student Cole Jansen. They ran side by side the whole time and finished in 26 minutes.
Back in the warmth of the pavilion, DJ Emerson spun heat and Bagel Hound, Docito Homemade, and Salty Market got on with selling snacks while the Vineyard manned a bar.
I went home carbo loaded with a bagel and a cookie but didn’t take home anything from the raffle. Note to self: don’t put both tickets in one bucket.
“The weather scared people off,” Lower said, but the plan is still on to make this an annual event on the Saturday before Thanksgiving.
As I peeled off my orange T-shirt and hung it up to dry at home, I reflected on ideas of hubris. Somewhere deep inside, I realized I had harbored notions of winning: the race, the raffle, the approval of my sister, who was there to watch me dash the final stretch only to see me place near last, just like I did with my half-marathon.
But this was the Gobble Hobble, I thought, and I had done exactly what the title required. I hobbled, I gobbled, and now I could cobble together memories made in the rain.
