I cannot believe how long it’s taking me to feel “normal” again after that relay. I mean, so what if I sat on a plane for two hours, slept in a strange bed, rode in a van for around 30 hours, ran three times in that 30 hours, slept in that same van, slept in a sleeping bag on the ground and on a gymnasium floor, then hiked for three hours the following day, and then got back on a plane for two hours. So what. That should not bother me. I should not feel like I’m 100 years old. I should be recovered by now.
But I’m not, and it doesn’t seem like that long ago when all of that would not have bothered me. Now I have to see a chiropractor and massage therapist just to feel good again.
It was all worth it, though. All the pain and the sweat and the recovery was worth the wonderful time spent with great people. People I want to tell you a little about.
Number one, The Engineer. You know the person that always has a plan? That’s her. You know the person that has every document you need in a binder, color collated, bound and waterproof? That’s her. You know the person that knows everything that’s going to happen, everything that you’re going to do before you know? That’s her. And for a relay, or really anything in life, this is the kind of person you want around. Well, that and the fact that she’s hilarious and though is shocked at the choice words you just used at the end of your all-up-hill run, six hours later you’ll hear those same words come out of her mouth. After she runs over a skunk in the middle of the night, and wakes the entire van with a scream followed by a stench that wouldn’t leave us for the rest of the trip.
Number Two, The One That Almost Got Away. From the team, that is. Apparently, he almost backed out at the last minute but then didn’t, because someone else did. Apparently, he was worried this would interfere with Ironman training (it probably did). Apparently, he did it anyway, and at a pace 1:30 – 2:00 faster than he said he would. Apparently that’s how you do it. And when you see glowing eyes in the bushes on your night leg, apparently you just speed up.
Number Three, The Joiner. This was our sub. This was our last-minute, we-don’t-have-a-clue-who-you-are-but-we-need-a-body person. This was the guy that showed up to our pre-race dinner in a buttoned up shirt and a Blackberry. This was the guy that would set the precedent for trouble you could get into in thirty hours. See: Disconnecting a street lamp to give us a nice, dark break. See: Asking a mounted police officer if he’s seen the WHoR (Women High on Running) van. See: Approaching a group of men on the side of the road inquiring about their low-rider, and where he could get one. All this from a four-time Ironman finisher, CEO, father of four.
Number Four, The Videographer. If you see any footage of me cursing a desert hill on the internet, thank him. If you see a YouTube clip of me attempting a cartwheel on the side of a highway with a semi approaching, thank him. If you see anything that looks a little like a running relay but more like six grown adults losing their minds, thank him. And also thank him for running 7:00 miles on an injury.
Number Five, The European. Not because he’s really European, but when you have a teammate running around in a black bandana, gas station sunglasses, no shirt and knee-high black socks, you have to tell people something. When you have a teammate approaching workers on the side of the road and asking them, in Spanish, how much they would charge to run the rest of our legs for us, you have to tell people something. When you have a teammate running barefoot in the Arizona heat, bringing other runners beer, you have to tell them something.
And then there was me. I’m not sure what I could have been called. I went out and ran exactly how I said I would. I was not faster or better or funnier or more outstanding than I said I’d be. I was just glad to be a part of it, and to be with my friends. Though I’m still in pain, and though my body reminds me I’m getting too old to sleep on the ground, I’m ignoring it. Because we all have a role to play. We all have a space to fill and place to do it. And the fun will always over shadow the pain and recovery. Those will go by the wayside, fade into time with only the good remaining in memories.
Except for that skunk—I don’t think anyone will ever forget about that skunk.
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