So this morning I got my tired butt out of bed at 4:50 a.m. on a Saturday. Typically I only get up this early to run a race. Today, it was to assist others who were up to run a race, the AF Canyon Half Marathon, to be exact. Originally, my friend Nathan (the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society Man of the Year and cancer survivor) asked if I'd be willing to help in his place, as he is riding a bike race today (yes, he IS Man of the Year!). I wasn't sure I could because I had a FiTOUR Cycling workshop scheduled, but I was able to change the start time and squeeze this volunteer opportunity in. I wanted to get the whole family involved, but settled for the girls, ages 8 and 11, who seemed to be the only ones interested in this very-early morning activity.
I had only been a water girl one other time I can remember, and it was in high school as service by one of the many clubs I had joined (I had a thing for collecting extracurricular photos in the high school yearbook). Now, having run so many races as an adult, I have a new-found appreciation for the aid stations. They are like mirages in the desert, only they actually do proffer up water, and just when you need it most. They are mile-markers, and cheerleaders, and thirst-quenchers. They are heroes.
When the girls and I showed up (I laugh, because this sounds like I'm talking about myself and my bosom, but no, I'm REALLY talking about my girls), the more fastidious volunteers had already set up the tables with water, Powerade, and Gus (that's "Gu"s, not "Gus"). I set out the Advil, as I had read the instructions and noticed that was the only thing missing from the table, and I felt like I contributed something to the set-up. Then I chatted it up with the other volunteers as we waited what we estimated would be another 45 minutes for the first runner. Like myself, most of them were also runners. We shared Ragnar stories, Ogden 2013 stories, and Vegas 2012 stories-- I love how runners are immediate cohorts in unbeknownst shared experiences. The girls got bored and cold and sat in the car. When my fingers started changing color (thanks to my lovely Raynaud's Syndrome), I joined them.
At 6:56 a.m., I saw the first runner approaching in the distance. I was so excited! We jumped out of the car and joined the other 10 people attempting to offer this crazy-fast dude some water, Powerade, or Gu, but the dude didn't need a thing. He zipped on through. The race had started at 6 a.m., and we were at mile 10.9. You do the math. Yeah, that was something to behold. Shortly after him, but not too close behind, was the second runner, then the third and fourth, all also guys. Only one grabbed a water. Then our first girl. She was SICK. As in cool, awesome, amazing sick-- she was fast. (Okay, she did also look a little sick, as in anorexic sick, but maybe that's just her body type and she just can't help weighing 80 lbs. She definitely looked like she could use a steak, or the whole cow. But I don't know if she even took a water.) It was such an incredible experience to witness these winning runners, the elite, the genetically gifted, the cream of the crop. We stood in awe, as they whizzed past, not needing us.
We saw runners who overpronated, oversupinated, ran pigeon-toed-- and they were all faster than I am. I guess alignment isn't vital to all runners after all. Well, at least not to the gifted ones.
Around the 1:30 pacer to about 2:15 pacer, it was madness. Personally, I prefer water, so I started out passing out water. Kathryn, too. Kelly, my little, picked up cups, as we decided it would be easier for her since she's closer to the ground. But soon, I figured out that by mile 11, people needed electrolytes, and everyone wanted the juice. So I grabbed those & began calling out, "Powerade, Powerade" until the word lost all meaning & I could hardly pronounce it. "Gatorade" would've been easier to say, with those nice stop consonants, but alas, I didn't want to offend the sponsors, so I muddled my way around those "w" and "r" sounds. I got funny, shouting nuggets like, "Drinks on me!" and "Free Powerade-- come get your free Powerade!" Must've worked, because runners would skip the nearest Powerade gal and head straight to me. (Competitive much?)
These middle-of-the-pack runners were working hard. Not granted magic powers like the ones at the front, they had to exert effort to be this fast. They needed us; they wanted us; they thanked us. I saw several friends running and cheered them on by name. Everyone else, I cheered on with "babe", "girl", or no noun of address at all, just a "looking good, almost there, kickin' butt". I left the cowbell at home, realizing I couldn't ring it and pass out drinks simultaneously. And I had been right. It was chaotic. Somehow I only got Powerade spilled on my wrist once. What can I say, I've got skills . . .
Toward the end of the pack, I knew we'd get the out-of-shape runners, the injured runners, and the walking-for-a-cause runners. I admired these people. Well, except for the lady who yelled at us for running out of Gu (I muttered, "You should've run faster," after she huffed away. That's what you get for being rude to a volunteer-- we mock you and your slow-ness, too.) One man had already finished but somehow was running again, helping along a family member who clearly was untrained and struggling. I got to play nurse at this point, wrapping one lady's knee and another lady's calves, and giving them tips for surviving the final two miles. Somewhere deep in my genes is that nurturing nurse (mom, grandma, and two aunts are nurses-- as long as there's no blood or vomit involved, I'm on it.)
What I loved most about helping with this race, was that I got to see all the runners. You never get to see all the runners when you're among them. You only see the few kills you might get or the carrots you're chasing, and that's it. But here, at mile 10.9, I got to see them all. I got to see their custom-made shirts and signs, "Running in honor of", "In memory of", "My mom kicks cancer's butt". I felt overcome, and humble, and connected. It was both joyous and difficult. I teared up more than once. It was a beautiful, sunny day, just like the morning we ran for Ryan Bonnett. It's still such a hard thing, but we keep going. We keep running. We keep aiding. We keep nursing. And we keep cheering.
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