5K or not 5K

This year, at the age of 34, I've become addicted to 5K run/walks.
Of course, because I can't run, it's the walk part that's important.
I mean, I can run, but as the action somewhat resembles an elephant running through a field of rubber cement, I don't run.
But since most 5Ks are fund-raisers and since I can't smell bone burning when I'm done walking, I figure there are worse addictions.
On Saturday, I did a 5K in a beautiful (read as "snooty") beach community in SoCal.
It's a land of miles of sandy beaches.
It's home to endless ocean views.
So what vistas does the 5K serve?
The awe-inspiring empty lots full of weeds, strip malls and the ubiquitous Starbucks.
And because the course was merely a 1.5-mile loop, I get to see all this twice.
But that's OK, because by the second time I'm going through the course, I spend an inordinate amount of brain power convincing myself I don't have to vomit.
Everything begins well: The starting line is at the top of a hill, so when the starter pistol goes off, I gamely start jogging, using the gravity to my advantage.
When the course levels off, the crowd thins and I slow to my regular pace.
Rounding the first turn, I smile at the woman shouting words of encouragement.
"I just hope I don't come in last," I say gamely.
"Nah, you're doing great!" she says.
And I believe her, right up until the point where I get lapped at the 1-mile marker by the guy who finishes the 5K in 14 minutes.
Halfway through, I really start worrying I'm going to come in last. I see people ahead of me, but no one behind me.
On my last trip through the loop, I pick up the pace, running by people encouraging me so it doesn't seem like I'm wasting their time.
"Don't ... come ... in ... last ... "
I grunt out the words with each breath I exhale.
"Don't ... come ... in ... last ..."
I start playing the game with myself.
Let me just beat that person.
Of course, since the people I'm closest to are about 50 yards farther ahead, 10 years younger and 100 pounds lighter, I don't stand much of a chance of catching up. But I give it the old college try.
"Don't ... come ... in ... last ..."
"Don't ... come ... in ... last ..."
And I cross the finish line running.
Running slowly, but running all the same.
A 6-year-old boy says, "Great job!" then bends over to cut the timing chip off my shoe.
I walk around to cool down and wait for my results to be posted.
Two people who'd finished earlier are checking out their results.
Guy: "I can't wait to turn 30 next year. I'll be in a different age bracket -- and look at how bad their times are!"
When the paper with my results is finally on the board for all to see, I want to cry.
Not only did I beat my personal best (I finished this 5K in less than 44 minutes) but I didn't come in last.
I sure showed that 90-year-old woman.