Willow feels like it happened years ago. I checked. It was May. A race season does strange things to time. Spring drags on like a long climb, then fall shows up all at once, like the finish line you swore was another mile out.
With Icebox wrapped up yesterday, the season is officially in the books: Willow in the spring, then In Yan Teopa, Trout Brook and Icebox stacked into the fall. I’ve tried to pick one moment that sums it all up. I can’t. What I keep coming back to is something smaller and a lot more ordinary: the people.
It starts in the parking lot
Every race begins the same way. It’s 6:00 a.m., it’s dark or close to it, and a few dozen people stand next to their cars, trying to pin a bib on straight. Somebody forgot safety pins. Somebody else brought 40. By the time the race starts, two strangers have compared shoes, complained about the forecast, and agreed they both went out too fast last time.
The trail does the rest
A kind of friendship happens only on a trail. You run behind someone for 3 miles and learn about their job, their kids, their bad knee, and their dog. You still don’t know their name. Then you see them at the next race and pick up right where you left off. I watched this happen all season, and it never gets old.
Volunteers are the secret ingredient.
None of these races happen without volunteers. These are people who give up a perfectly good Saturday to stand in the woods, fill water jugs, and hand pickles to sweaty strangers. They cheer for you like you’re family. Some are runners taking a day off of training. Some are spouses and kids who got talked into it once and keep coming back. A few are probably still trying to figure out how they ended up there.
Something happens at an aid station that’s hard to explain. A runner comes in at their lowest point. A volunteer says the right thing, refills a bottle, and sends them back out. Two people who had never met share five minutes that one of them will remember for years. That’s a real connection. It just happens to come with flat Coke and a handful of potato chips.
The finish line is a reunion.
My favorite part of every race isn’t the start. It’s the end. People who finished hours ago stick around. They grab a chair, pull on a dry shirt, and cheer for the next runner, and the next. The last finisher usually gets the loudest cheer of the day. Nobody organizes that. It just happens, because by then everybody’s in it together.
I just set up the tables
I’d love to take credit for all of this, but my job is mostly logistics. I mark the course, haul the coolers, count the porta-potties, and worry about the weather more than any reasonable adult should. Then I get out of the way.
The best way I can describe it is a front porch. I build the porch and put out some chairs. You show up and bring the conversation. The friendships, the inside jokes, and the “see you at the next one” all come from you.
That’s what I’m most thankful for this season. Not that the races went smoothly, though most of them did. Not the course markings, though I’m fairly confident most of you stayed on course. I’m thankful I get to provide a place where friends meet, and strangers become friends.
So thank you. To every runner who toed a start line, every volunteer who stood out in the cold, and every family member who held a jacket at the finish. You made this season what it was.
Enjoy the off-season. Rest up, eat something that isn’t a gel, and I’ll see you at Willow in May.