There is no finish line

I stopped racing over 10 years ago. I dropped out of the last race I did, while in the lead. I wasn’t having fun and didn’t want to be there. It wasn’t a difficult choice.

People at the aid station were understandably confused, and my own comfort with the decision confused them further.

“What? You’re just quitting?”

The norm is to tear yourself in two for a finish. I’ve done that many times and the consequence of that stubbornness still lingers.

People regularly ask me what I’m training for. When I tell them I no longer race, they almost always ask, “Not just for fun?” I bristle at the question. I’m starting to understand why, but I’ll save that for a future essay.

For now, I’m just happy to say I love running.

I love getting up in the morning and getting myself prepared. Some coffee, some food, and hopefully some evacuation. Things always go better when that happens before the run starts. I love tying my shoes, a double overhand and a double loop. Always. Nothing special here, just ritual, often with eyes closed and a deep breath. I love Rory’s excitement and the little dance she does at the top of the stairs. Sometimes Betty (Darcy’s dog) joins, and her dance is even better.

I love a climb and the possibility that maybe today I’ll be able to run every step to the top. I love running along the river and thinking about returning to all the swimming holes I go by. Over the years, I’ve maybe returned to two or three, but fully committed to all of them.

I love ramping up the pace as home approaches or just walking it in if that feels right. I love sharing all this with friends. I love that I’ve been able to run with the likes of Ryan Hall and Scott Jurek and so many other heroes, but also to run with people trying it for the first time.

For a long time I had a pretty good sense of what each run would bring. I trained specifically, with structure and discipline, and prided myself on consistency. I relied on this sensation and often oriented my days and weeks around it. Now that’s gone. I’m old and inconsistent and each day brings what it brings. In fairness, that’s not completely true. I’ve got some experience with this body and have learned to listen to it (well…I’ve learned to listen better).

I’ve grown to love the uncertainty. How will I feel today? I can generally tell within the first 10 seconds, but some runs surprise me. I sure do miss the sharpness that comes with peaking for a race. Riding the razor, as Rob calls it. But that sharpness can cut you down at any moment with injury or illness. The peak of your powers is a precarious summit.

It took years of unwinding and reorienting my body to fill in some of these deep grooves—the persistent pain in my hips and knees, bone density loss. I now love being pain free. Not that I am all the time, but far more often than when I was racing.

I’m about to reenter the racing world this weekend at the Crazy 100. I’ll be pacing a friend, which is as close to competition as I want to be. I’ll be twitchy at the start and finish lines and probably at the aid stations too. That scene is now uncomfortable. But once I leave the Halfmoon campground with a dear old friend and embark on a wild adventure into the big mountains, I’ll feel that love.

Running. One step at a time.