Cheer Stations

 Yesterday, I ran my fifth full marathon, my first in two years.  The idea felt daunting at first - I hadn't forgotten how all-encompassing the training could feel, spanning sixteen weeks and requiring hundreds of kilomteters to be travelled simply to complete those last 42.2.  And yet, there I was, signing up and taking on the work.

Training went well - the weeks seemed to pass more quickly than I expected them to, and despite a slightly cranky hamstring, my body and mind adapted to the workouts and didn't put up roadblocks along the way.  Getting up and getting out for those early morning runs and long weekend runs became routine, and something I looked forward to.  Especially the long runs that had me crossing the city instead of sticking to very well-worn routes from previous training blocks. 

Friends started to inquire about the big day, and I noticed that many of them seemed to be more excited about the race than I was.  With it not being my first time at the rodeo, I put it down to being more focused on getting the work done ahead of the race and nothing else.  At least I wasn't feeling a sense of dread or discomfort at the idea of participating, and maybe the excitement would come later on.

AI algorithms had cottoned on to the fact that I had a marathon in my calendar, and began to flood my social media feeds with stories, memes, and other various posts related to running and racing.  Some were amusing, some were tear-jerking, most were relatable, and my favourites were the ones that centred on spectators and cheer stations on race routes.  There is something about the folks who come to cheer on people they know, and the multitude of strangers that they don't, offering high fives, shouts of encouragement, clanging cowbells, and witty signs and slogans ("Worst Conga Line Ever", "Chafe Your Dreams!").  The more of these stories and posts I saw, the more I allowed myself to loosen my tight grip on preparing for the day and began to ease into a space of vulnerability and excitement.

It felt a bit tender to admit that I was looking forward to the race, because I am not someone who is aiming for a podium (especially not at an event like this!!!) or who will maybe even have a time worth talking about.  I went into this race trying my hardest to put the thoughts around time and performance aside, focusing more on how I was feeling throughout the training and making my goal to finish strong.  But it is hard to ignore the one thing that seems to be the main focus of most stories around running.  Time.  How much or how little, and what that means regarding your identity as a "runner". 

It felt vulnerable to allow myself to admit that I was looking forward to the race because I had no idea how the day would go and whether or not the sixteen weeks of preparation would lead to an outcome that I could feel good about.   Could I allow myself to feel good about any outcome, regardless of how it stacked up aside others who would also be out there giving it their all? Then I thought back to those cheer stations and how easy it is for us to cheer for others, while we struggle at times to cheer for ourselves.  I gave myself some grace and some time, and slowly found myself starting to embrace the cheer station idea. The idea of being able to cheer for myself regardless of outcome, regardless of accomplishment, and regardless of how I compare to the field.  Instead, I decided to go to the starting line, ringing an internal cowbell for myself for the simple act of putting myself out there, doing the work, and showing up for myself throughout the process.

The day was nothing short of incredible.  The weather, which had been threatening storms, turned around and ended up being somewhat balmy for a late October race.  There was a huge field of runners, and with that came excitement and awe at what lie ahead of us.  In the days and hours leading up to the race, I received numerous well-wishes and messages of encouragement, all of which I stored in my "power bank" to be pulled back out when the going would get tough, as it always does.  Seeing familiar faces along the route also buoyed my spirits and helped me to dig deep and push hard as my muscles started to question my life choices as the final 8 kilometres or so loomed ahead.  Despite the push-back my legs were giving, I managed to get myself across the finish line with a smile on my face and arms waving overhead.  I silently cheered for myself as I crossed the line, shedding some tears as the enormity sank in.  I know that in the days to follow I will have time to reflect on the experience more deeply, thinking back on the external cheer stations I experienced and starting to build an internal one of my own.