Personal Narrative: The Race For The Cure

The misty September air froze against my skin; at least, it felt like it did. As we walked along the river, I debated the effectiveness of a faking an injury. Would we stop if I was hurt? Or would we continue to shuffle on, herded by orange traffic cones and dreary-eyed volunteers? Even now, years later, I still marvel at the fact the race starts at 8:00 AM. Whoever had that idea must not have recognized the pain it would cause my nine year-old self. Marching throughout downtown Portland, I felt a distinct similarity to the toy soldiers by brother had been so fond of. While we were disorganized and reckless, we walked quietly, with a common urgency. The comparison could as we ascribed to the large white lettering across my grandmother’s back: Survivor. In fact, I was surrounded by several women wearing loud, magenta shirts, all inscribed with the same word. At the

She, my aunt, and my grandmother had hauled suitcases up to Portland for one mysterious weekend every year for the past 12 years. Albeit, only recently have I taken notice. In September of 2009, I joined the tradition. The Race for the Cure is a two-day event consisting of a convention as well as race day. Neither of which I was eagerly awaiting. However, the shopping trip I was promised in exchange for my attendance left me quite animated. Over the past several years, I often stared in awe at the mysterious bags of merchandise snuck into my house upon their return. I felt as if I finally got to learn the trade secrets being a women: running off to the city to shop and eat at expensive restaurants. In retrospect, I realize that my attendance probably was neither eagerly await nor a graduation to womanhood, given the amount I complained. At the moment, I didn’t dare to consider any of these recent revelations. A whole new world had opened up to me.Nonetheless, in a true childish fashion, I began to regret it after a mere 24