I had entered a race called the Hampshire 100K, and a good friend offered to crew me. This was a gracious and thoughtful gesture of help (prepping my food, readying my chair every 4 or so miles, tending to my whining, and reminding me which way to run in the late miles). However, I met it with wariness. It felt like a threat to me. To my independence.
My ‘not so easy’ races and the grueling training provided me a great sense of self-reliance and confidence in myself over the years. Now I was going have someone there to help me through it? Kind of defeats the purpose of doing this kind of body and mind numbing event. Besides, there were aid stations, so really, I would be fine. I had my own back, and all the knowledge on how to finish this sort of event on my own. Somehow my friend convinced me during my ‘independent tantrum’ that they would only be there in the most ‘bare-bones’ of ways, so I reluctantly agreed.
Once I got running, my pre-race jitters turned to pure low fueled adrenaline and I began my rituals.
Focus on your race. Don\’t speak to anyone and throw off your pace or HR. Stay mindful of your nutrition and your head game.
I saw other competitors running, chatting away together. I avoided that kind of thing like the plague. I wasn’t going to rely on others to calm my nerves! Besides, it would throw my pace off. Break my concentration. I would ‘graciously’ share a few words and pleasantries in passing, then it was right back to my assault on the course.
Coming up on mile 20, the ‘markers’ in the woods that are supposed to show what direction to go were growing slim to none. I came upon a group of runners that looked as confused as I did. We ran together for about a mile or two (I wasn’t happy with the whole situation), questioning amongst ourselves nervously whether or not we should go back. Jason, a very laid back, but strong runner thought it was a good idea to turn around, as did I. We headed back, luckily finding the course marker only about a half mile up from where we left off.
Jason and I continued to run together. He was personable, soft spoken, and hadn’t taken our blunder too seriously. His energy was easy, and besides we were about the same pace.
Sometimes we ran silently together, but mostly we spoke about everything from coaching (we both coached kid’s cross country), philosophical views for doing races that some might consider less than a good idea, and our nutrition plans. Just as we were breaking into our favorite comedy flicks, we came upon an aid station at mile 40. “Really?” I thought, as my ‘bare-bones’ crew person sat me down, put Campbell\’s chicken soup in one hand, and a Gatorade in the other (right, no help at all). I had been jabbering with this person I barely knew for over 20 miles…and yet the race felt easier.
Jason and I continued to keep each other company, waited for each other while we slowed down to ‘quick walks,’ or faked tying a shoe, while the other took a bathroom break. I was starting to lose steam in the late miles (usually physical exhaustion comes first for me, followed by my mental ‘coach’ struggling to keep me from grabbing my “blankie” and falling asleep under the nearest tree). I used what was left of my mental stamina to visualize the next mile marker. “Mile 50.” It would be the boost I needed. Only 12 miles to go. Less than a half-marathon (amazing what you can convince yourself of). Only problem — the mile marker read “Mile 47.” It was as if someone pushed the finish line 20 miles back and filled my brain with 50 pounds of wet cement. My mental anguish buckled my knees. I put my back against a tree, head in my hands. Maybe some fuel, water, and a good talking to from my ‘coach’ for 10 minutes or so would bring me back. But it was a tall order for a brain depleted of simple sugars to allow reasoning (although basic primal emotions of fear and panic were in no short supply). I had been in this lonely spot before. It was familiar and I had always been able to lift myself out of it. Alone. What wasn\’t familiar was the voice I heard next.
“I can stay with you until you’re ready.”
These were more than just genuinely said words from Jason. They were binding. I hadn\’t been in this race alone since 20 miles in, and neither had he. I just didn’t know it. We had each other\’s back. The act of staying with me wasn\’t required. Just knowing that I had someone as committed to my finishing as he was to his own felt new to me. Made me stronger.
I told him to go on, I’d be up in a bit and probably see him in an aid station or two, but I wanted to ask a favor. Something I would have never dared to ask anyone before on a race, but I knew would help motivate me to get up, and start moving once Jason was back on his way. “If you get there before me, wait at the finish-line.”
I knew I didn’t want to disappoint myself, that motivation and independence was there. Built long ago. But to have my new friend and companion in this hardship waiting at the finish line for me would be like a mental tow-rope pulling my body and mind onward. I didn’t know if this interdependent act of ‘asking for help’ would degrade the independence I had built, but the burden of my race had been so much easier to carry together than it was alone that I was willing to try.
“I’ll be standing at the finish beer in hand… How cold it ends up being is up to you.”
I got up about off my butt in about 10 minutes after Jason went on, and trudged my way up to the aid station before Crotched Mountain. I sat down in the chair my friend and crew person put under my butt, was given water, told to sit for a bit, encouraged, and handed a towel and food. I got up slowly up and out of the chair, and shuffled back onto the course. My crew-person motivated me forward with talk of how close the finish was (a great deal of censorship here getting out of the chair). Meanwhile, my new friend, Jason, awaited me at the finish line just a few miles ahead.
Once up and over Crotched Mountain (MUCH more censorship), the last few miles were down and flat. When my beaten body turned the corner towards the finish, there was Jason, beer in hand, looking at his watch half joking and waving me on. My crew-member was taking pictures of my ‘crossing over.’ My legs, as well as my spirit, felt lighter from seeing my new friend and crew-member as I crossed the line.
Grabbing the beer from Jason’s hand, I gave him a hug (I might have just fallen on him, not sure). We spent an hour or so re-living some of the horror, and the laughter, before we shook hands and hoped to catch up on another course. Another course we could conquer together.
I know now that none of my races, training or anything that I’ve done worth doing have I ever done alone. I have always leaned on the amazing help and support from my family, friends, and, truth be told, even people whom I have never met (the race volunteers and organizers, the people who made my coffee that morning, the person in the factory who put the Campbell’s chicken noodle soup in the can in New Jersey…). Yet, I had previously only acknowledged many tools I had developed to deal with my physical and emotional pains through training. The resilience I had built to be able to count on myself. I also had the knowledge that I could be available for others when they needed me. What I hadn’t developed was the knowledge that others could be there for me too. The help didn’t lessen me. It didn’t take away all the tools I had built over the years. It made me stronger. I have that knowledge now, and I am so grateful for it.
