Personal Narrative Essay: 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. Perhaps, then we would finally take a break. Although, It is far more likely we would 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 supplied the idea must not have recognized the pain it would cause my nine year-old self. Nevertheless, as we marched through downtown Portland, I felt a distinct similarity to the toy soldiers my brother had been so fond of. While we were disorganized and reckless, we walked quietly, with a common urgency. The comparison could also
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 and the actual race day. Neither of which I was eagerly awaiting. However, the shopping trip I was promised in addition to 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 woman: running off to the city to shop, eating at expensive restaurants, and apparently swearing a vow of silence, for only those in attendance were privy to the details surrounding Race Weekend. In retrospect, I realize that my attendance had probably been neither eagerly awaited nor a graduation to womanhood, especially given the amount I complained. At the moment, I didn’t dare 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