In any case, things are not always as they may seem when it comes to my support for my husband’s penchant for ultra-running. Yes, I have and will continue to follow him to the ends of the earth for the events. The alternative is staying home and I can’t fathom NOT knowing how the race is going and how he is doing; wondering if my being there would be the spark he needed to get it done. Yes, I publicly and privately praise his dedication, mental fortitude, role-model behavior, and fit physique. Yes, I celebrate all of his successes and grieve all of his disappointments, as if they were my own. Yes, I am, in most cases, his crew chief. And in that role, I play medic, nutritionist, hydrationist, psychologist, meteorologist, physical therapist, pharmacologist, course navigator, cheerleader, shoe-finder, pack mule, “go-for”, sidekick, split-timer, photographer, social media race reporter, and voice of reason…to mention a few.
Though I try to do all these things with a giving spirit and positive vibe, sometimes it’s harder than others. Sometimes, it’s nearly impossible! And for those of you that know me well, you are familiar with my non-existent poker face. For instance, the other night, my dear husband was reading some of the course descriptions for an upcoming race. Interspersed in the narrative were phrases like, “A very personal challenge to face down the demons that wait for us at our very limits of endurance,” and “Just try to survive the ‘Big Rat’; 2000ft in about a mile, this is a horrendously foul ascent laden with saw briars up to 10ft tall.” All of this craziness is read with levity and a sparkle in his eyes. His mouth is upturned into a smirk and he can’t contain his boyish giggles.
Meanwhile, I am dying inside. I can’t even pretend to laugh. It’s just not in me.
He finishes with a rather dismissive, “Don’t get me wrong, this is going to KILL me…but it sure is gonna be FUN!”
Really?? Seriously?? Fun?? I don’t think so. It makes me want to kick the race director in the teeth. I want to scream at the top of my lungs, “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE??!!”
Then there are other times when I find myself as one of the ‘You people’, defending the sport and all that goes along with it. It’s one thing for me to call him “crazy”, but a whole other thing for anyone else to make that statement! Last year before my husband’s first attempt at the 50-mile distance, an exchange between myself and our Pastor illuminated this phenomenon quite well.
Our Pastor had made some reference to how dangerous running these long distances and specifically how “we hear all the time bout these ‘ultrarunners’ dropping dead of heart attacks!” Even after I assured him my husband had just passed his yearly physical with flying colors and was in the best shape of his life, he countered with, “That’s what we ALWAYS hear the family say when tragedy strikes!”
And then…the protective, internal shield went up, and I become one of “them”. How DARE he take that stand with me! Wasn’t this a man of faith? Wasn’t it his job to soothe fears, tamper down anxieties, celebrate the human spirit and God’s gifts in our lives? Wasn’t it his responsibility to remind us of God’s grand plan, the miracles found in everyday existence, and to nurture family bonding? Where was his encouragement and prayerful response? Where was his praise for my husband’s dedication and the example he is setting for using his talents to promote wellness and fitness? Where was his support for our family as we embarked on our upcoming adventures?
Did he not think the worst case scenarios play in my mind over and over and OVER again? Did he not consider we take every precaution possible to avoid such a tragedy? Did he not believe this keeps me awake in fervent prayer more nights than I would like to admit?
Ultrarunners are a unique breed, made up of folks who understand their passion is not easily comprehended or appreciated by those on the outside. And it’s not meant to be. They, quite frankly, couldn’t care less if anyone outside their circle of trust identifies with their obsession or not. They freely make fun of themselves and their sport, sharing a common thread of perseverance, fervor, and admitted lunacy. They joke about passing out or dying on the trails, only to have their gear split up among the other racers.
But for those of us supporting these athletes, the dangers and risks are real. Our fears are founded and our worries are innumerable. While we do our best to mask the sometimes paralyzing panic and the urge to make our way backwards through the course to drag them to the finish line, we often fail ourselves and our runners. Accepting failure is no less difficult for non-runners…we’re all human. No one likes to admit defeat.
Luckily for me, Saint Sebastian has already been appointed the Patron Saint of Running, Saint Dymphna is the Patron Saint of Worry and Anxiety, and Saint Cajetan is the Patron Saint of Good Fortune. With all the sainthood bases covered, I’ll just humbly put one foot in front of the other and make today better than yesterday. I’ll keep trying to at least meet him half-way…finding irony, humor, and a sense of calm amongst the peculiar antics, glorified recitations, and fanatical preparations that make this sport what it is. Maybe there’s room for me to stand ON the line that makes up the circle of trust. Neither in nor out, but capable of distinctly appreciating the view from both sides.