Just like Ace of Base, I saw the sign, and knew I wanted in.

The sign? One stuck in the ground near the grocery store, advertising The Firecracker 6, a 6 mile or 6k in Indianapolis on the morning of the 4th of July.

I was in Indy for the Junior National Volleyball Tournament with my 16-year-old, and as any parent who has been to multi-day sports tournaments knows, there is a ton of sitting around and waiting. While the kiddos exhaust themselves competing and being social all day long with their teammates, the parents sit. And sit. Then pass a little time on the elliptical in the match-box sized gym before sitting some more.

So I rounded up three other volleyball parents (registration was $35 or 4 for $99: love a bargain!) to save $10, create a little parent bonding, and take away a little of our collective sitting time.

I also knew that having three other adults there to chat with pre-race would mitigate the anxiety I’d have about feeling more than slightly out of place (yes, truly) in a sport that is the focus of my career. Since my decision to step back from running high mileage, I have become attached to the cheerleading squad, a safe place to land in the world of fast legs and many miles.

I rationally know that nobody (except me) expects anything of me, physically/running-wise, but still. I was pretty ramped up both with a mix of excitement and regret. Psyched to pin on a bib, of course, but the whole scene felt a like visiting high school when you’re in college: full of memories of who you used to be and expectations that often fall short.

The volleyball parents.

I haven’t been in a straight-up road race in about three years, and my longest run for the past year has been 4.5 or so miles. I knew I could finish the 6k. Wanting to maximize fresh air during my workout (yes, I mentally painted it as a workout, not a race), I signed up for the 6 mile, knowing I could—but let’s be honest, probably wouldn’t—head to the 6k finish line if my body wasn’t having it.

Pick a 6, any 6.

The good news? Any emotional angst I felt disappeared as soon as the (ahem, really loud and not spectacular) fireworks started us off. (My only complaint about the race, by the way.)

That always happens, by the way: most worry/fear/anxiety disappears as soon as I start to move forward, whether I’m “racing” or simply running or swimming or cycling.

And it turns out, not much about what goes down in a race for me has changed in three years. To wit:

—Even if I haven’t trained–or run fast in a year–it is still ridiculously hard not to go out too fast in the first mile.

—I continue to feel a bit claustrophobic in race crowds. I hug the edge of the road–not for swift, run-the-tangent purposes, but just because I like to have as much space as possible.

—My mind will always slingshot every which way but into my performance. At the time, I thought this was the coolest mural and thought of Adrienne and the flock of #motherrunner knitters. Seeing it now, it’s not jaw-dropping, but it served its purpose: diverting myself from the fact that I was around mile 4.9.

—Timing mats still make me self-conscious. Not sure why, but I don’t like them.

—Even though it’s not much wider or whiter than my everyday grin, my finish-line smile always feels most authentic–and is the way I like to picture myself.

—The post-race nap always feels much deeper and sweeter than one after a regular workout.

—My perspective on life always feels crazy positive and in technicolor after a race: I had a lovely conversation with the barista who made me the best latte ever. Then, as I hunted down a CVS, these two nice ladies were my BFFs. Finally, the cashier at CVS, who called me “Honey” about seven times seemed quaint, not annoying.

—A day spent on tired legs, even if I’m sitting most of the day, is surprisingly fulfilling.

—I can talk about the race all day long afterward. While the volleyball parents and I sat and watched volleyball off-and-on for the next nine or so hours, we compared our races a couple of times, talked temperature and humidity (SO much sweat!), marveled at Gavin, who finished first in his age group, and otherwise felt accomplished and connected.

—Speaking of connection, as I was Struggling (and no, that capital S is not overly dramatic), somewhere between miles four and five, Emily, pictured above, recognized me. As I lumbered along, she chatted me up a bit, telling me that she was once an intern for #motherrunner Rachel Jones, our previous Mother Runner of the Month who lives in Djbouti.

I couldn’t keep up with her and her running partner, so they went ahead. As they trotted off, I was truly bummed. My Old Me could’ve easily kept up the running and the conversation.

But as I moved forward towards the finish line, legs feeling done, shirt soaked, and spirit renewed, I got over myself in the way that always has—and always will—work for me: One step at a time.

What little quirks about races do you notice?