For the record, they were not kidding about the course when they termed it "tough". Actually, that's a bit of an understatement.
Also for the record, race participants donated ~1500 canned goods for a local food pantry. The warm fuzzies from that took the sting out of my finishing wayyyy near the back of the pack.
And one final one for the record: do men just generate more pee than women or something? I must have seen at least a half dozen men run off course to "water the trees" in the first mile alone. Ten miles later and I didn't see one woman cop a squat the whole time!
I did this race last year with two friends and have very fond memories of running along the streets of Marlborough, burning off some Thanksgiving calories, taking on the massive hill at Mile 9, and finishing quite tired but happy. So when Thanksgiving approached this year, I checked to confirm this race and started spreading the word. The few "maybes" I managed to drum up quickly turned to "nos" due to injuries, Thanksgiving travel, or other commitments. For all of 20 seconds I thought about skipping the race this year and running on my own, much closer to home. Why trek out to Marlborough when I could roll out of bed, hit the Newton hills and be at my kitchen counter with the Sunday paper before 9 a.m.? But something stubborn in my mind wanted to do this run, solo status be damned.
One of the reasons why I love this run is because the registration fee is ten canned goods for a local food pantry. Before the start of the race, the race director announced that over 500 families visited the food pantry last week. So this run is, for me, something of a gratitude run. I think of people who do not have enough to eat and I know that I'm called to do more than show up for a run on a gorgeous Sunday morning. I am grateful - and keenly aware - that I am blessed with having enough food to eat and terrific people to share it with.
I drove out to Marlborough alone, leaving my house before 7 a.m. and traveling west on the Pike with few other cars. A feeling of lonesomeness nagged at me, as it did last night when I was getting my running clothes ready. It's rare for me to drive to a race alone, and even rarer for me not to be meeting someone there. Usually the car ride out is enlivened with music and chit chat, as my running pals or my sister and I catch up with each other. But this time I was alone, it was quiet, and I was very aware of that. Despite the fact that my friends and I have a tacit agreement to run our own races (i.e., run our own pace and no slower or faster than we'd go on our own), the start and finish line are usually places of smiles, jokes, and brief conversations. Running with my friends is my social life, and driving to and running a race by myself felt like going to Friday night happy hour alone.
I arrived early to the race start, dropped off my canned goods, picked up my race number and returned to my car to read the Sunday paper and listen to country music. One of the perks of driving alone? No one will make fun of my love for Willie Nelson. It was soon time to start and I, along with 100 or so other runners, lined up near the start line at the edge of the park. A course description was given, the national anthem was sung, and off we went. It was early morning and the air was still and quiet. Few people were out and as we ran through the quiet suburban streets, we did not make much noise at all. This wasn't a "rah rah" kind of race or crowd; we just hit the road and ran. Not much conversation, not much interaction. Just a whole lotta uphill running.
I ran alone, breathing the fresh air and enjoying the tall pine trees and rolling hills to my left and to my right. The streets were hilly but manageable and the clear blue sky and crisp air provided ideal running conditions. With the exception of a few brief hellos or nods, I didn't talk with anyone at all. The first several miles passed quickly as I thought over the past few days, the days ahead, and a million other things. Running usually opens the doorway of my heart and my mind and allows me the chance to process feelings, experiences, and thoughts. Today that door was wide open, and the things that crossed my mind seemed all too heavy and too serious for a Sunday morning run. But I let those thoughts come up, and I tried to make sense of the ones I could and let go of the ones I couldn't. I thought about my future career, and how I am on the way from something to something else, yet, at present, wondering how to identify myself. I'm not a fundraiser anymore, and I'm not a chaplain yet. I'm hovering between the two worlds, rejecting one and not yet fully part of the other. I thought about the paper I worked on all day and the ones I have yet to write in the weeks ahead. I thought about a relationship in my life and the reality that it may soon end, despite how much I wish it were otherwise. Running along, tackling the hills of the race course, pondering my own existence and future, I did feel quite alone. Normally I love solitude, but today it saddened me somewhat. Coming off of four days of nonstop family time, I felt quite suddenly and acutely the sharp pang of being alone, of driving to this race alone, running it alone, and having no one waiting for me at the finish line. But I realized that we all run alone sometimes. We do. Sometimes we do because we want to and sometimes we do because we have to. No one else can plan my future or make decisions about my relationships anymore than they can run my race for me today. And though I ran alone today, I am never really alone. There'll be someone at the next race, and the one after that. I'll carpool with friends, and we'll talk at the start line, and give each other sweaty hugs at the finish line. And the same will happen with life, because even when we feel alone, even when we feel like it's us vs. the world, there is a quiet, sometimes invisible army of friends and loved ones, people who care for us, and they are always there. Sometimes you run alone, and sometimes that's just what you need to do.