Me and Raccoons Left

Like most events in my life, the 13.1 South Shore Half was half triumphant, half tragedy. And not really that dramatic on either side, but still.

The original point was to support my best friend in her first ever race. She trained for months and ran to raise money for destitute and exploited little girls in India. I was just running for the free beer after.

She and I know that we’re different. I warned her a thousand times that I might not be the best ‘team player’ she could choose.

Anyway, as events changed this year and I got into New York, I had an additional incentive to make this a training/testing experience for the fall marathon. No one would deny me that, despite my original promise.

We discussed a lot of what-ifs before the start and basically agreed to just cut each other a break, whoever had a disaster first, and roll with it, forgive each other, let whatever happens happen.

She had a team of charitable, devout, delightful peers, saving the children with each step. They could be identified by their infinity-symbol jerseys. They knew me from the meet-up the night before and admired our friendship. If she ran with me instead of them, they understood.

The starting line was fun. We danced a little (because you have to when the song commands Everybody Dance Now) and calmed down. My friend moved up 5 waves to mine because I wouldn’t let her start last. The sun was getting more and more threatening. And we were off! to a Bruno Mars song, naturally.

She put on headphones and our further communication was through small signs and eye contact. The sun/heat became intense early. And, to make a long story short, I ditched her ass when she was struggling.

I never meant to.

She trained at 10 min. miles and I’m always around 12. She’s tiny, I’m not. We never discussed the possibility that I would end up ‘faster.’

Hopefully some runner-readers will understand the moment-to-moment dynamics and how this could happen. How you could smoke your dearest BFF and not look back.

I told her beforehand that the one thing I can’t live with is being stuck right behind a person or a pack. I want to kill them. I’ll usually find the fuel to ‘break away’ to find a free space. So, it was in doing this a few times, that I found myself ahead at the 4th or 5th mile.

There was a moment- a look- when I asked 'Should I wait?' and she gave me the ‘go on’ approval. So I interpreted, at least. And then I found myself alone, trying to maintain a steady pace. (I don’t walk during races or haven’t had to yet.)

So… try racing with guilt sometime. It adds a layer.

Worst parts: 1) after the turnaround when I saw her from the other side, suffering, not even able to recognize me 2) seeing her teammates everywhere inquiring where she was, determining that I was, indeed, the uncharitable antichrist they suspected, after all. They’re right.

But, I had just come from Chris McDougall and Scott Jurek’s lecture the other night and recalled them using the phrase 'You’ve gotta run your own race.' That became my mantra for the last 7 miles.

Run. Your. Own. Race.

I know that running has become associated with teams and charity and that billions of dollars have been raised to help animals and people this way. It’s amazing! But is there ever a way to truly consider distance running a team endeavor?

Begin with the fact that I’m one of the most solitary people on the planet. I wouldn’t even notice if all of humanity was wiped out and it was suddenly just me and, like, raccoons left.

I’m sure I’ll look back on this episode with profound regret one day, when it becomes clearer that my friends, especially this one, enriched my existence beyond what I ever deserved.

The end of the race, for me, reverted to classic Jennie. Grunting, mumbling (‘Outta my way, motherfucker’, ‘Asshole, move!’, ‘Why is everyone around me walking? Die!’).

Manic moments of breaking away. Booking it to the finish as the course twisted and you couldn’t see where it was. Not so subtly mouthing ‘Where’s the motherfucking finish line?’

Scott Jurek had also just taught me the concept of getting chicked, which encouraged me to practice this phenomenon. [Getting chicked is a girl passing a boy, with attitude.]

After tears, confusion and a torturous school bus ride back downtown from the south side (Lou Rawls’ greatest disco hits blasting as Lincoln Park-ites started to pass out and have R & B-induced strokes), I reunited with my friend.

Naturally, in keeping with her angelic and forgiving nature, she was concerned about me. I kind of wanted her to tell me how much I hurt and let her down. I thought she should tell me I’m an abandoning jerk. Of course she wouldn’t. She’s too, too good.

She had proudly finished the race and celebrated with her team and family. We said farewell and went back to our very different lives.

I learned some important physical and strategy lessons for November. About when I can break away and speed up. About the pain of my hands swelling. About increasing my steps per minute/shorter strides. About when to look at the horizon and when to rest and look at the ground. About how to shake intruding, interfering thoughts.

What I learned from leaving my best friend during a race is that when you cross the finish strong because of it, you cross it very much alone.

In my head I replay the scene, imagining I had stuck by her side and we crossed over together. Pictures would confirm that I never left her side. But I ran my own race and have to live with that. She’ll forgive me. She’ll have a clearer conscience. I’ll continue to train and, if I finish New York, know that I was never really as alone on this path as I thought.