I began this blog a little less than ten years ago as a Brooklyn-focused running blog, or perhaps a running-focused Brooklyn blog. Running endures as a regular part of my life, but it’s less of a passion these days, more something I do because, well, it’s something I do. It’s been a long time – almost five years, is that possible? – since I’ve posted a race report.

So if this one should stray from the conventions of the genre, it’s partly because my writing, like my running, has suffered from neglect . . . but also because the Gaza 5K is not exactly a conventional race.

Especially not in these times.

I’ve run the race multiple times before; it’s a national fundraiser for UNRWA’s services in Gaza, a cause I’ve long supported. To say it’s taken on even more urgency would be an understatement. While there was no doubt but that I’d participate – I marked my calendar as soon as I got word the race was coming back to NYC – I wondered about the atmosphere. Past races were joyful festivals, drawing hundreds of Palestinian families, young activists, veteran peaceniks, friends and supporters of the above, and even the odd competitive runner. Would this be more funeral march than dabke party?

It was, in fact, joyful. Not stupidly joyful . . . determinedly, defiantly joyful is a better description. The mood was set at Thursday’s bib pickup, which did not take place at a running store, like any old race, but at a Palestinian restaurant in the heavily-Arab neighborhood of Bay Ridge. I knew something was up when I turned onto Third Av from 86th St and saw a line stretching the better part of the block. That was partly the tight confines of the restaurant, partly the slowness of the process (though for folks who aren’t in the business of race management, they were quite efficient), and partly – mainly – the huge number of people who showed up. It was cold, but I didn’t hear one complaint.

Hani Almadhoun, the director of philanthropy for UNRWA USA, was on hand to distribute t-shirts. I didn’t recognize him at the time – I know his emails, not his face – and so was not forced to wonder how the friendly guy who steered me to the right size (“loose! I like my shirts loose!”) could manage to stand upright, much less distribute race shirts, in the wake of incomprehensible loss.

Race day, yesterday, was both cold and rainy. I got there early, of course. I may be out of shape, but old habits die hard, and I’m neurotic about getting to races early – even when the weather is miserable, even when I’m not really racing (or so I tell myself), even when I have reason to believe the race is not going to start on time.

Which, of course, it did not. The Gaza 5K never starts on time. You might say that’s part of its brand, along with an inaccurately measured course (it is not in fact a 5K, but rather a full loop of Prospect Park, i.e., 3.35 miles), a complete absence of mile markers, and a chaotic start. These are all things that runners hate; in any other race, I would hate them, too. But at the Gaza 5K, they’re part of the experience, along with a pre-race breakfast buffet and a keffiyeh-draped DJ.

As the ostensible start time of 10am approached, I wandered over to the general area of the finish chute, where others were also starting to line up. There was no “Start” sign, so we took our best guess. In my case, that meant standing a respectful distance behind the much faster former PPTC teammate, now a Dashing Whippet, I’d been chatting with. I did my usual survey of the crowd, and tried to position myself behind people who looked much faster than me (young, wiry, minimally dressed) and ahead of people who looked slower (not so young, not so wiry, wearing raincoats and backpacks, or even carrying umbrellas, yikes). When I overheard the women next to me talking about shooting for 30 minutes, I figured I was in more or less the right place.

Because, you see, I had made the mistake of reading the “awards” section of my pre-race email. And despite my lack of mileage and speedwork, despite my vows to just have fun, despite daily reminders of my body’s general deterioration, visions of taking home a prize for being the fastest 60+ year old woman in the field clouded my thinking. How deep could that category be, after all? I’d used my pre-race milling around time to size up the competition – unobtrusively, or so I hoped – and while there were a few older women who worried me, I thought that if I started close enough to the front (I suspected, correctly, that our timing chips wouldn’t provide net times) and ran quicker than, say, 9:30 pace, I had a shot.

But wait! Some kind of unintelligible announcement was being made. It turns out we had lined up incorrectly. Everyone needed to squeeze into the (extremely narrow) finish chute. In the ensuing scramble I found myself a bit closer to the front than I would have liked, closer than I had any right to be.

More minutes ticked by. At least the crush of bodies was keeping us all warm. Finally I heard a voice shouting, “Runners, take your marks!” as though it was possible for any of us to move.

“Ready . . . set . . . GO!”

At least, I think someone said “go,” because we started going. First in a tentative shuffle and then, surprisingly quickly, at something approaching a run. I noticed other runners veering off to the right to escape the congestion, and decided to join them – motivated less by speed, in my case, than safety. So preoccupied was I with avoiding other runners’ legs and arms that I completely missed the traffic cone directly in front of me.

Bam.

I stumbled, but stayed upright. Confused – I didn’t immediately see the cone and had no idea what I’d hit – I did the absolute worst thing one can do in a crowded race, and came to a dead stop. Fortunately, no one ran into me. (“Watch out for that old lady,” I can imagine other runners muttering, “she’s a disaster waiting to happen.”) A second, maybe two, to collect myself, and I was running again.

I had the great advantage of having run three loops of the park just two weeks ago in the PPTC Cherry Tree “race for the hardcore,” and besides, the park is my home turf. Settling into a rhythm wasn’t hard, and the cheers and Palestinian flags along the course made me want to run just a little faster, lift my feet just a little higher. The hill was coming, I knew, but I was prepared.

Up zoo hill, around the north end of the park, down the west side. I complimented the people who were passing me, encouraged people when I fell into step with them. “The next mile runs itself,” I said to one guy, who professed to be glad to hear it. He was from Pittsburgh, as it turns out, his first time in Brooklyn, just for this race – so my preview of the course was actually helpful. He picked up his pace and left me behind.

After the long downhill, all that’s left is to hang on. I noticed a woman with curly, graying hair gathered in a loose pony tail – I can’t remember if I was initially passing her, or she was passing me, but she noticed me, too, and we began to race one another, really race, trading the lead back and forth.

I’d found my old lady competition, and was no longer running for fun. I was running to beat this woman. My breath was coming harder, my legs threatened to buckle. Heck, I was probably throwing down a sub-9:00 mile! (For you non-runners, that is a bitter joke about how slow I am these days.)

We were more or less even when we passed the faded white line that marks the 2.25 mile mark on the old Al Goldstein course. By my rough and ready estimate, we had another quarter mile to go. Hold on. Hold on.

Someone else, more recently, painted 1/8 mile markers on the south end of the park loop. I was slightly ahead of curly-gray-pony-tail when we passed the next one. Running hard impairs my cognition, especially my ability to do mental math, but I was pretty sure there was either a little more than 200 meters to the finish, or a little less. I could see a crowd, and, barely, the timing mats. Hold on. Hold on.

But I couldn’t. Or at least, I couldn’t match curly-gray-pony-tail’s vicious finishing kick, and she took off ahead of me.

Getting outkicked was a letdown, but finishing fast was exhilarating. My time, according to my watch: 29:49. After I could breathe and see and think again, I headed back to the course to cheer on other finishers and caught up with my rival, who was doing the same. We exchanged congratulations and laughed at the way we’d each pushed the other. “Yeah, I think we’re about the same age,” I told her. “That always makes me competitive.” I was of course hoping she’d volunteer her age (“59” would keep my hopes intact, “60” would dash them), but she didn’t.

Was it even worth sticking around for the awards ceremony, I asked myself? Yes, I decided – I was already so thoroughly soaked that getting home a bit later rather than sooner wasn’t going to make a significant difference in my general level of discomfort. Besides, by then I was enjoying the music, the company and the shelter of the park’s Grecian pavilion. And when the awards started, I discovered they were going three deep, which meant I still had a chance. The presenter worked her way through the cute kids and runners in their prime until she finally reached what she described as “the most amazing category of all!” . . . meaning, people my age who still manage to put one foot in front of another in something resembling a running gait.

She read off the names. I wasn’t third; I wasn’t second; I was, incredibly, first.

I’m still not sure how that happened, but I happily accepted my medal from Hani Almadhoun (it was at the awards ceremony that I realized who he was). Most of my medals and trophies are stuffed in a bag in the closet. This one, though, is hanging where I can see it.

I left before the dabke party. If it’s such a simple dance, as multiple people have assured me it is, why am I so very bad at it? Past attempts to join in have been rather embarrassing. Biking home, I was ridiculously proud of the UNRWA medal dangling from my neck (yes, I kept it on). I was proud to have played a small part in $2 million for UNRWA. And I was happy.

I keep coming back to the idea of joy in dark times, struggling with both the phrasing and the emotions. Running in the park, listening to the DJ spin tunes (God, I love Ana Tijoux’s “Somos Sur”), cheering the stream of finishers, seeing all those waving flags and exultant faces – I definitely felt joy. To be defiantly joyful, for me, means to carry personal losses, or knowledge of the losses of others, and still show up, still run, still play music, still dance, still cheer . . . not without pain, not without guilt, not without (let’s be honest) seething rage. But to do those things anyway, and find joy in them despite it all.

That’s what both running and community are good for, and the Gaza 5K offers both.

(P.S. If you are moved to contribute to UNRWA USA, their donation page is here.)