Here’s a story from yesterday’s Bloomsday. I’m with my daughters, Emma and Sarah, my granddaughter, A.J., and son-in-law, Ty.

We started in the RED section, which is the strollers group. It’s the last segment of the day—the slowest of the slow. The caveat for this section is everyone must walk. No running with a baby jogger! If a RED participant finished under 1 hour and 40 minutes, it would disqualify them.

Our little crew started near the back of the RED section, which was fine. We were there to have fun and a nice family walk. Sarah pushed the baby jogger while the rest of us laughed and joked. We took down our first mile in 20 minutes.

Emma and I chatted about doing a half marathon someday. “We could just do Bloomsday twice next year,” she suggested.

Feeling spry, I started pushing the pace a bit. The rest of the crew fell behind. That’s when Ty said, “Give Colin the stroller.” I’m not sure if he wanted to slow me down or if he thought I would help the group pick up the pace.

As soon as I got my hands on that baby jogger, I became a maniac. A.J. and I challenged everyone to a race.

“Your stroller looks fast,” I said to one mom. “Let’s race.”

“What?”

Too slow. We took off and left her in the dust.

Sarah cried out, “Oh God!”

Emma shouted, “What the hell is he doing?”

Ty laughed. “Get ’em!”

Next up was a very nice foreign couple. They looked terrified when I suggested we race. The husband politely shook his head. “We don’t do that.”

As Ricky Bobby said, “If you’re not first, you’re last.”

A.J. and I left them in the dust.

The 3rd mile pace dropped to 16:31. Four minutes faster.

On the first significant hill we came to, A.J. and I pushed past the lollygaggers. I channeled my inner David Goggins, the former Navy SEAL and ultramarathon runner. Striding at full-length, I chanted, “Let’s take some souls, A.J.!”

Ty loved it, encouraging us to go faster. Sarah thought I’d lost my mind.

Emma repeatedly said, “I hate you.” She had prepared for Bloomsday by drinking a Red Bull and a quad-shot Mochachino on the ride downtown. Not a champion’s breakfast.

At Mile 4, we had to stop so some in our group could get a snack from the stroller. But not A.J. and me. We needed to get back on the grind. We had souls to take! Soon, A.J. and I were overtaking members of the LILAC section, the group that started before the strollers. Slackers!

My legs burned as I went up the next hill. “Taking souls, A.J.!” People cleared out of the way.

I worried my craziness might wear out my daughters. “Someone else can take the stroller,” I suggested.

“No,” said Sarah. “You keep it.”

“Keep pushing,” insisted Ty.

“I hate you,” muttered Emma.

At the bottom of Doomsday Hill, nearing the 5-mile mark, we passed members of the BLUE section—two groups ahead of us. A.J. and I were really cruising!

Ty and Sarah bolted up the hill and left us behind. That’s when Emma grabbed onto the stroller handle. “Pull me,” she said. “You owe me for making me do this.”

“I didn’t make you.”

“I don’t care. You’re still pulling me.”

Doomsday Hill’s elevation is equal to 16 flights of stairs. I pushed the baby stroller and dragged a 24-year-old daughter, all the while chanting, “We’re taking souls.” An older couple pulled away as if a demon possessed me.

At mile 6, our pace was down to 13:29, almost seven minutes faster than the start.

During the race, I cut through some slow-moving walkers.

“On your left,” I called out.

“On your right,” I warned.

If that didn’t work, I’d push right through the middle and apologize, “Excuse me.”

As Robert Duvall said in DAYS OF THUNDER, “He didn’t slam into you. He didn’t bump you. He didn’t nudge you. He rubbed you. And rubbing, son, is racing.”

Throughout the course, I searched for hard-chargers, people who walked fast. I would stride toward them and pass them. Remember, there was no running with the strollers, so we had to do some super-fast walking. With that said, there were several folks who I couldn’t catch.

The best battle I had was with Lauren, a woman pushing a stroller with her baby boy in it. As we neared Broadway Avenue, I said to Emma, “I’ve gotta pass this lady. She’s killing me with how fast she’s going.”

“You’re too loud,” Emma said. “She’s going to hear you and think you’re a weirdo.”

Lauren hurried over to us with a big smile. “Finally! Someone who gets it.”

“All right,” I said. “Let’s go!”

Emma scowled. “I hate you.”

The last mile was a race between Lauren’s kid and A.J. Sarah was several strides behind us, shouting, “I can’t keep up with my baby!”

As we rounded the corner, my crew headed for the finish line. Sarah and Ty trotted alongside A.J. Emma crossed the victory line a few seconds behind us, grumbling about how she’ll never forgive me for putting her through such a day.

We completed the course in a few seconds under 2 hours, with an average pace of 16:05. Not bad for some stroller-pushers who started out for a nice Sunday walk.

After we collected our commemorative T-shirts and assembled back at our truck, Emma beamed. “I had so much fun,” she said. “Can we do it again next year?”

Now the question is, how close to 1:40 can we get since we’ll still be in that stroller section?