Every day I live unglamorously. I potter about my flat wearing a bathrobe. I beachcomb through my possessions while searching for something that is usually sitting in plain sight. I do this before rushing out the door with my heart pumping needlessly fast because I am a scatterbrain. And sometimes, albeit far less often in the past, I find myself layered in non-clothy technical gear amongst dozens of fellow humans as we all wait for someone to tell us that we can move.

I used to really enjoy writing about running races that I have participated in throughout my life. That was back when activities like fundraising and achieving personal bests felt new and exciting. I no longer feel that way anymore. My focus, instead, has shifted towards quietly supporting causes that I believe in—and I now focus on how to keep my body in fighting form as I age. Four-day 90K races through the mountains of Morocco while bathing in a river are things of the past.

But running, as I have frequently said, is a great way to learn about a new place. The pavement or twisting paths of this planet each have their own personality—and in my case, running is the only way to switch my overanalytical brain into standby mode. Here in London, I have signed up for several races in the past three years, but I have yet to follow through and show up at the starting line come race morning. Instead I tend to go out and enjoy tracing my own lines through the city’s many parks and streets.

So while I haven’t been doing much more than a once-weekly 5K, I decided to sign up for a 10K being put on just south of the Thames. The neighborhood is an hour from where I currently live, so I thought this might be a great excuse to gently step outside of my weekend routine.

No matter the length of race, there are aspects to competition that one must consider come event’s weekend. You must set aside competition essentials: a charged GPS watch, the bib, the timing chip, instructions on where the heck to go…and course, as Father Time continues to methodically pound his hammer, you really must wake up early enough to enable one’s bodily rhythms to do their assigned things. It also helps if you don’t spend the evening before drinking with Spanish friends. They are the world’s greatest night owls.

From my body’s younger perspective, a 10K is nothing at all. It requires just about zero preparation—and certainly no excessive carb consumption or even stretching merits consideration. On the morning of my City Run in Clapham, I woke up and still didn’t feel as though I had committed to competing. I told myself that I’d see how I felt once I opened my eyes. I also knew that if I awoke to London rain, the chances of me staying layered in my bathrobe, coffee in hand, would skyrocket.  I’m too old and have nothing to prove to myself.

But the morning that I awoke, the streets were dry with the temperature in the mid-50s: a perfect morning to run. I downed two cups of coffee and a swallow of water (for ibuprofen—while out the day before, I had fallen and my knee was swollen). I grabbed a small bag containing a book (for the tube journey) as well as a hoodie. Oyster Card in hand, I left to catch my train. I was committed to running with the masses.

There are things about organized races that I dislike. What tops them all is the standing around in corrals that one must do. The backing up of the clock in order to get there usually takes longer than the run itself. It is far more preferable to drop outside of one’s house to embark on an unfettered run either solo or with a friend. Indeed, I have fond memories of meeting friends—like one living in a historical house in Old Town Alexandria just south of Washington, DC. She is an ultramarathoner, and I would join her for stretches of training as we’d skirt the Potomac and catch up on had transpired during the past week. And we’d pass fellow running addicts on those early mornings—but for the most part, our departure and pacing were creations all our own. Perfection.

But now all alone in Clapham, I was amongst thousands of anonymous competitors who were all wearing the same race t-shirt with individual numbers printed onto the front. A young woman with too much makeup for Sunday morning brandished a microphone. She announced our turn to move toward the starting line while promising that end the end we’d be rewarded with a medal and “a lovely CLIF bar”.

We still had 30 minutes to kill as we were encouraged to bunch closer together in order to allow the people behind us to make their way in. Club music boomed. The youthful and fit race leaders attempted to warm up in place by having us do awkward knee raises and squats that left everyone constantly conscious of our lycra-coated anatomy coming into contact with that of our neighbors’. The residents in the high rises started to open their windows and gawk at the spectacle of us in the street. As I looked around, I couldn’t help but notice that many of the competitors were far younger than me. This was not my first race.

But even as I silently complained about being crowded in with so many London running enthusiasts, I still appreciated the representation in our corral. I saw folks in many different shades, WhatsApping on their phones in multiple languages and characters. This, I reminded myself, was the best part about living in this city.

I like a 10K best because it can be easily digested into segments. And while we were advised to “run our own race”, just before the air horn blew, I still did the usual rookie thing and set out too fast. The pack was moving, and most of them, it seemed, were blowing right past me. Father Time felt like he was pushing me from behind with his big, dull, bony pointer finger.

And maybe it is a combination of age and my own sense of self-drive, but as I clopped along down the asphalt roads, my tendency was to only notice the dozens of springy runners who continued to move past me. The only folks I seemed to be passing were those inexplicably seated on the curb with their heads down. Few had resorted to walking. In my mind, I told myself that everyone had a different story. As for my legs, they were questioning why I had not given this race a bit more training.

The gentle sloping inclines felt like a slog. I told myself that I was not going to look at my watch. I also told myself that I would only be allowed to complain about how tired I felt once I reached the 6K mark. “Come on, Megan,” I kept telling myself, “there is no way that this can feel that hard. 10K is over in a blink.”

I continued with my mental game until I finally reached the 8K mark. Nothing about the race was ever exactly hard, but I think the most surprising aspect was my reflection on age and slowing down. I acknowledge that being in one’s 40s is not exactly old—but there are also creeping evidences that one’s clock has been spinning for a while now. And soon, once I cross that finish line, I will then earn irretractable proof in the form of a finish time.

The race, as my brain continually promised, was over before I knew it. The sprint through the final end felt easy, and I was admittedly more excited to get my CLIF Bar than I was the medal. My first race medal, my Marine Corps Marathon one, is the only one that I have ever cherished. This new one, as it would turn out, would be given to a friend’s child in less than an hour’s time.

My final thought on this 10K was that my finish time turned out to be far faster than I imagined. I didn’t go in with any sort of goal at all, and indeed many aches and pains had me thinking that I’d just feel accomplished in getting out there. But my finish time made me feel encouraged, and also helped to spear through my negative thinking that I’m getting older and slowing to the pace of a sloth. I’ve still got plenty of movement left in me…even if the self-chatter of complaints always seems to be rising.

I don’t know if I will enter in any more races during my time in London, but it’s nice to have something under my belt for 2018. Part of me feels like I should quit while I’m ahead—but if I’m being honest, I will admit the I still rather prefer those quieter mornings out there either on my own or with one of my trusted cohorts. I value those days most. But for now, I have this great memory, and it’s nice to think that I got to share it with a few thousand fellow Londoners. It has made me feel more a part of this city.